


the courage to stretch out my hand

by Daenarii



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: (through implication but still), 5.4 spoilers, Canon Compliant, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, Happy Ending, M/M, Miqo'te Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Mutual Pining, POV G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch, Slow Burn, Trans Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), featuring cameos by other scions but we're not gonna clog their tags, gay trans men written by a gay trans man, standalone chapters, touch-starved g'raha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:53:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 22,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28451943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daenarii/pseuds/Daenarii
Summary: In the last hundred years, G'raha Tia had to learn how to be the Crystal Exarch. Now, he has to learn how to be himself again.Or: moments in which G'raha and the Warrior of Light find each other growing ever closer.
Relationships: G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Original Character(s), G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light
Comments: 28
Kudos: 76





	1. surprise

**Author's Note:**

> > we would float away  
> like a dream i had  
> to the open sky—  
> through the atmosphere,  
> just you and i.
> 
> — _a dream_ , denver pike
> 
> q'uille is pronounced "kwill," while uille is pronounced "will."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A moment from the distant past, still cherished deeply.

Stars twinkle above G’raha’s head, the box heavy in his arms. Part of him resents the others for making him alone trek all the way to Revenant’s Toll just to retrieve a suspicious mystery package from Rowena. Another part of him is glad for the reprieve from his studies; his eyes were beginning to ache by the time Rammbroes hailed him down.

A third part of him just wants to open the box and see what the fuss is.

He keeps shaking it in an attempt to hear something rattling around inside—maybe it’s a weapon or a tool or a piece of armor. Whatever it is, though, simply slides along the bottom of the box. It must be big, since it’s not easily unrooted, and soft, since he can’t feel it press against the sides.

His tail coils before he leaps off a small edge, feet kicking up dirt. At least the weather is fair. Mor Dhona tends to run either too chilly or too warm, but tonight is the perfect temperature in between. The air is lazy, and he wants to lounge around and simply enjoy it.

Maybe that’s what he should’ve been doing other than studying or picking up packages. It’s his nameday, after all; would a little break doing what he liked instead of running an errand be remiss?

Still, he prefers to lend a hand than not, especially with how busy the Warrior of Light is. When G’raha left, they were already listing things for Q’uille to assist with. There really is no rest for the righteous, even if they deserve it the most.

G’raha approaches Saint Coinach’s Find, surprised to see NOAH’s corner of it deserted. Usually, at least one person is milling about—usually Rammbroes. But now, the closest individuals are the Sons. Not one of G’raha’s companions are in sight.

Perhaps more strange, however, are the decorations. As G’raha steps closer to place the package on a table, he inspects the multicolor ribbons hanging from the poles of the tent. The few tables reserved by NOAH have flowers arranged on them. The vibrant bouquets are full of reds, oranges, and yellows, and they remind him of home.

“Surprise!”

G’raha’s tail puffs up in fright at the sudden shout next to his ear and iron grip around his midsection. He struggles for just a moment before he feels the flick of a furry black ear against his cheek.

“Q’uille,” G’raha breathes. “You should know better than—” 

“Surprise!” comes another small chorus. Q’uille releases G’raha, so he turns to face the group: the entirety of NOAH stares at him with grins.

“What’s this?” G’raha asks, furrowing his brow.

“It’s yer nameday!” Q’uille wears an eager smile. His eyes, one blue and one gold, are bright as a summer sky. “So we figured we’d throw a surprise party.”

“Unfortunately, _someone_ was a little too eager,” Cid chides, raising his brows at Q’uille. Amusement tilts his mouth and tempers the statement.

“‘e was _right there_!” Q’uille defends. “What were we waitin’ for?”

“For it to be a _unanimous_ effort.” Cid crosses his arms. “It’s more fun when everyone does it at once.”

Q’uille waves a hand, his white-capped tail flicking. “‘e got surprised either way. What’s more important is,” he fixes his stare on G’raha, “did ye open the box?” 

G’raha puffs up in pride. “Of course not. I am a man of my word.” He deflates a little. “…Why? Is it actually relevant?”

“Of course,” Rammbroes says as he takes it from G’raha. “We wouldn’t make you go up to Revenant’s Toll on your nameday for nothing.” He ferries it to one of the tables.

“What is it?” G’raha peeks around the roegadyn in an attempt to investigate. 

Rammbroes doesn’t answer directly, instead muttering, “You’d better hope you didn’t shake it around too much.” After some maneuvering, he carefully pulls the top off the box.

White icing sticks to the walls, though the design on the round cake’s top is still intact. Ruby red icing reads _Happy Nameday G’raha!_ in the center. A small book made of yet more icing rests in the corner, with a small fondant bow lying atop it. Above the lettering is an azure rock candy replica of the Crystal Tower that glitters in the lamplight.

“You…you all got me a cake.” G’raha’s voice is small. His heart squeezes with fullness.

“Do ye not like cake?” Q’uille asks, hurried. “We could—uh, swap it out with somethin’ else!”

“Like a pie,” Biggs suggests.

“Or pudding!” Wedge adds.

“Some kinda tart?” Q’uille’s voice is weak.

“No—no,” G’raha laughs, instinctively hiding his grin behind a hand. “I love cake. I’m simply touched. I didn’t expect you all to go to these lengths for me.”

“You’re part of the team!” Cid interjects. “Of course we’d do something special for your nameday. It’s the least we can do, with all the help you've given us.”

“The chief’s right,” Biggs nods. “We’d barely be breakin’ down the doors of the Tower by now if it weren’t for you.”

G’raha takes a step back, cheeks warm. His tail wraps bashfully around his leg. “Thank you all,” he says, trying to find the words to show his gratitude. “I, ah, truly believe that this is where I’m meant to be.”

“Same here,” Q'uille agrees with a soft smile that makes G’raha’s stomach flip. “Now break into that cake, Ramm! The nameday boy’s starvin’ over here.”

“Alright, alright,” Rammbroes says, sliding a knife into the cake. “If you told me the Warrior of Light has a killer sweet tooth, I would have laughed. And yet….”

Q’uille continues pestering Rammbroes, leaning around him to try and watch the cake. The roegadyn continues shifting to block his view. Cid tries to convince Q’uille to simply let him be, while Biggs and Wedge cheer him on from the sidelines.

G’raha can’t erase his smile as he watches the scene. He receives his slice of cake first, followed by Q’uille, then the others. As they eat around the table, trading jokes and stories, he can’t believe his luck. 

He’d truly found another family here with NOAH, though he hadn’t expected to. Back home, his interest in his father’s lineage—and, by extension, the Allagans—had served mostly to alienate him from his sisters. He’d studied alone (save for when his father could join), and as a result had always felt that, if he allowed himself to be truly known, he would be left alone.

Yet here he is, a warm family that shares his interests surrounding him.

He’s tempted to ask how they found out when his nameday is. But he knows he mentioned it once to Q’uille, when they first started investigating the Tower. He’s surprised that the man remembered for so long, and that he bothered to do anything with the information.

The thought alone is enough to make his cheeks burn.

Later that night, after the others have retreated into their tents, G’raha settles on a small rock overhang near the outskirts of the camp. It’s late, and he should sleep, but he doesn’t feel tired yet. He swings his feet, watching the distant Tower gleam in the moonlight.

“Hear me out.” Q’uille scuffs dirt as he sits next to G’raha, so close that their arms brush.

G’raha, loosened by wine still flowing through him, leans against Q’uille. “If I don’t?”

“How can ye not, with those big ears o’ yers?” Q’uille scratches behind one of said ears.

The scratches feel _good_. G’raha tilts his head, flopping his ear over to invite Q’uille to continue. Even so, he grumbles, “My ears aren’t so large.”

“I think they’re cute, anyroad.” Q’uille takes his hand away. 

G’raha nearly harrumphs in protest, but he swallows the displeased noise. “Since you’ve complimented me, I suppose I can listen. What’s on your mind?”

“Well, the others agreed t’ not get ye any presents, on account o’ it bein’ difficult t’ get much of anythin’ out here. ‘N’ I went along with it, but….” Q’uille looks down, rubbing an arm.

G’raha leans forward to catch his eye. “But?”

“Well…it didn’t feel right. Not after how much we’ve done ‘n’ how close we are ‘n’ how much I like ye.” Q’uille’s bronze cheeks darken a shade. “So I figured sod it, ‘n’ got ye somethin’.”

G’raha smiles easily. “I’m touched that you broke a vow for me.”

“It weren’t no vow,” Q’uille defends. “The others just agreed it’d be more of a hassle than a nice gesture, ‘n’ I figured the same. But I figured out somethin’ what wouldn’t be cumbersome, ‘n’ lets ye have some sway in it. ‘Cause honestly, Raha, I’m shite at gifts.”

G’raha laughs, tail curling in delight. “Finally, something you _can’t_ do,” he says, though he’s still endeared. Particularly when Q’uille’s tail twists around his waist, bashful. “Though I’m certain you’re exaggerating. It appears you’ve already put a lot of thought into this, Uille.”

Q’uille’s ears perk then flatten as he flushes again, like he does every time G’raha utters the nickname. “Well—I mean, no more’n usual. A healthy amount, I guess. Jus’—uh, here.” He sticks out a small rectangle of yellow parchment to G’raha.

“What is it?”

“Take it.”

The paper is crisp between G’raha’s fingers. He has to squint in the dark to see what’s written on it. It’d be difficult even in the daytime; the words are shaky and unsure, and certain letters are squeezed in as if they had been forgotten. _One Free Q’uille Task_.

“I figured time’s the most valuable thing I’ve got,” Q’uille explains quickly. “‘N’ I’d do anythin’ for ye even if ye didn’t have that ticket, but this makes sure o’ it. Even if the world’s endin’, that gets me t’ drop everything ‘n’ do whatever ye want."

“Whatever I want?” G’raha echoes, rubbing his thumb along the edge of the paper.

“Aye. Please don’t make it embarrassin’, though. My ma asks for news all the time, ‘n’ she’d cuff me good if she caught wind.”

Unfortunately, G’raha’s mind runs rampant with the possibilities. He flushes as he considers a date with Q’uille—something quiet and intimate and not at all like how they’re used to spending time together. Or…something to do with much less clothing.

Q’uille rambles, “If, uh, if ye don’t want it, I can—”

“I want it.” G’raha curls his hand protectively around the ticket and turns his smile up to Q’uille. “This is a wonderful gift. Thank you, Uille.”

Q’uille’s ears wiggle again. “Uh-huh. No problem. I’m jus’ glad ye like it.”

“What wouldn’t I have liked? The thought of having the Warrior of Light at my beck and call…it sends a rush through the body.”

Q’uille shrugs, looking back out to the Crystal Tower. “Jus’ don’t go mad with power, huh?”

G’raha stores the parchment safely in a pocket. “What if I have already?”

“I’d be able t’ tell.”

“Would you?” 

“I’ve gotten good at sniffin’ out evil.” Q’uille leans closer, inhaling slowly. “Well, actually, now that ye mention it….”

“You’ve noticed too late, I’m afraid.” 

G’raha lunges, wrapping his arms around Q’uille and rolling them away from the overhang. Q’uille growls playfully and falls easily into the game. It’s one that G’raha taught him, a favorite for children from his tribe in which each person tries to spend more time atop the other. Given how alienated he was from the other children, he never had the opportunity to personally play it, but at least now he can. Q’uille normally wins, of course, but G’raha can hold his own.

Tonight, however, they end by laughing breathlessly side-by-side beneath the stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! if you wanna know more about q'uille, he has a carrd [here](https://quille.carrd.co/#).
> 
> this fic has been pre-written, so we're gonna aim for daily updates :) feel free to come talk to me on [tumblr](https://praetoriums.tumblr.com/)!!


	2. family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An uncommon moment of quiet and reflection between the Exarch and the Warrior of Darkness.

“Exarch, what’s yer family like?”

Q’uille asks the question nonchalantly, but it nearly makes G’raha drop his staff. They’re standing in the Exedra, the blue sky above a newfound blessing that they’re both taking a moment to appreciate.

G’raha has an answer, of course. Q’uille would know the details, too: his father emphasized above all else loyalty to his bloodline’s destiny, and its connections with the Allagans. When not doing that, he taught G’raha to read, and encouraged his interest in studying the Allagans. His mother was a distant and faded memory, though he knows she knew her way around a bow. The rest of his tribe is now as faded in his mind as her; he’d never been close with them, given that he was inspired to study their relations to the Allagans and they were not. He was a bit of an outcast for it, and the other children were singularly unkind about it. It all worked out in the end, though—especially when he became a Student of Baldesion, and found a family on the Isle of Val; especially when he joined NOAH, and found a family while studying the Tower. 

But he surely can’t share any of that.

He instead answers, “Why do you ask?”

“Jus’….” Q’uille’s ears dip, a sure sign of heavy thoughts weighing on his mind. He crosses his arms and looks at his feet. “…I miss my ma.”

G’raha knows more about her than he should. He needs to be cautious, lest he slip up and show his hand—though he has to comfort Q’uille. “An understandable feeling.” He hesitates, then invites, “What is she like?”

Q’uille’s ears lift a fraction. “Fiery. ‘N’ stubborn. Every time I leave Limsa, she tries ‘er damnedest t’ get me t’ stay.” His ears dip low again. “Never really gets any easier t’ leave. Even after so long.”

“When did you last see her?”

“Jus’ afore findin’ yer beacon.” He offers a tight grin. “Figured y’ were gonna do somethin’ semi-permanent, so I wanted t’ let ‘er know. Wanted t’ tell ‘er I’d come back.” He laughs a little, self-conscious. “Might be why I was so angry with ya at first. Sorry.”

G’raha shakes his head. “You need not apologize. Anyone would have been upset in your position—and rightfully so.” He pauses a moment to debate the wisdom of his next question. He decides it wouldn’t hurt much, and may help Q’uille feel a bit better. “Would you like to describe your home to me?” 

Q’uille tilts his head, then nods. “Sure. But let’s go sit down.”

He leads the way to the Wandering Stairs, G’raha at his side. After a few steps, Q’uille says, “It occurs t’ me that I don’t know what world yer from. Are ye a First native?”

“What do you think?”

Q’uille squints at G’raha, scrutinizing him closely. “I think yer from the Source.”

Anxiety runs electric through G’raha’s fingers, though he’s careful not to let it show. Still, he can’t think of anything to say past a quiet hum.

“What, yer not gonna confirm?”

“What makes you think I’m from your world?”

“How else would ye know ‘bout me?” Q’uille crosses his arms. “‘N’ the Tower is Allagan tech. First hasn’t got Allagans, ‘n’ yer the only one what can control it, so ye gotta be involved with Allagans _some_ how. Meanin’ ye gotta be from th’ Source.”

“Norvrandt has its own version of the Allagans, rest assured. Is it not conceivable that the two nations differed only arbitrarily?”

“So yer from the First?”

“It’s certainly not impossible.”

Q’uille groans. “C’mon, I was just startin’ t’ like ye.”

G’raha can’t help the instinctual frown, though he’s careful to smooth it away. “My homeland is a secret I must continue to safeguard for the time being. I apologize for any frustrations it may cause you. Pray do not worry yourself too deeply about it, my friend.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Q’uille grumbles. His ears are pinned back in annoyance, his pupils narrow slits.

G’raha, as always when he has to lie and evade, feels guilt heavy on his chest. He hates seeing Q’uille so agitated over something he said, but he needs to keep this charade up a little longer. He only hopes it won’t kill him to do so.

Once they settle at a small table in a corner of the Wandering Stairs, G’raha prompts, “You said your home was Limsa?” He leans his staff against the table.

“Limsa Lominsa, aye.” As Q’uille continues, his annoyance melts into fondness. “Beautiful city carved outta islands ‘n’ white rocks, the sea constantly batterin’ ‘er at the bottom. It’s got different tiers, so it’s a nightmare t’ navigate if yer not a native. Mostly populated by the seafarin’ sort, which explains why I don’t talk fancy.”

“I happen to enjoy the way you speak.” The words are a gut reaction, a result of G’raha staring too hard and thinking too little.

Q’uille, fortunately, takes it in stride, with a small smile. “Flattery’s not gonna get ye anywhere, Exarch. Anyroad, people o’ Limsa are rowdier than this lot at the Crystarium. That’s not a bad thing, mind, jus’ different. Someone’s always shoutin’ at the top o’ their lungs, hawkin’ their wares, all over the city.”

“It sounds….” G’raha considers. When he’d first been to Limsa Lominsa, he loved it. As a young man, he thrived with all the energy and the action; he longed for the adventure that came with such a busy city. It was novel. Now, however, he’s grown used to the relative quiet of the Crystarium. Would he be able to go back?

Q’uille shakes his head. “It’s not for everyone. Most people who don’t sail leave. My ma likes bein’ near the sea, though.” His lips quirk upwards, eyes far away. “I remember every year when I was a mite, we’d go t’ Costa del Sol. That’s a lil’ resort up the coast. Expensive gettin’ into the resort proper, but we had fun jus’ playin’ in the surf, collectin’ shells ‘n’ whatnot.” 

He snickers. “One time, this hoity-toity type came up to us ‘n’ told us we couldn’t play under the pier. Privately-owned beach, she said. So we figured we’d give the beach back t’ ‘er, if she wanted it so bad. Found ‘er bags, filled ‘em with sand.” His smile ilms wider. “So much sand. She damn near tipped over when she tried t’ pick one of ‘em up.”

G’raha can’t keep the smile off his own face. He hasn’t heard this story before, though that’s unsurprising. With NOAH, there had been time for Q’uille to return home. Here, not so much. Reflection is only natural.

“Were you not discovered?” he asks.

Q’uille shakes his head. “We were watchin’ from the shadows, ‘n’ left after we saw her sit down ‘n’ start shovelin’ the sand out with her hands. Never saw her again.”

“I’m inclined to believe that’s a good thing.”

“I dunno, I’d like t’ see her face if she saw me now.” Q’uille says the words as a joke, but after they’re out, his face falls. “Haven’t been there in years, though. Since becomin’ Warrior of Light, I’ve had too much t’ do. Too much at stake for me t’ try ‘n’ rest.”

G’raha frowns. “If anyone deserves a break, ‘tis you. You cannot carry the world on your shoulders all the time, or you will shatter.”

“Says the man what plucked me from my world ‘n’ set me in another t’ save both of ‘em.”

G’raha isn’t sure if he wants to laugh or apologize. He settles on, “Fair enough. Though I’d like to point out that you’re at least taking breaks.”

“When’s that?”

“Would you not call what we’re doing now resting?”

Q’uille purses his lips. “…Aye, guess that’s true.” He sighs. “Which means I should probably get back to it.”

“Before you go—?”

G’raha blurts the words, not wanting to part from Q’uille so soon. Still, when Q’uille settles and stares at him with a furrowed brow, he has to find something to ask.

“I, ah, am glad that you feel comfortable enough to share your concerns with me, but I must wonder: why me? Why not Alphinaud or Alisaie or Thancred?”

Q’uille shrugs a shoulder. “Yer here.” He shifts uncomfortably. “‘N’…I don’t like botherin’ ‘em with that kinda stuff. They look t’ me for hope, so if _I’m_ feelin’ a mite hopeless…no good, y’ know?”

“You’re feeling hopeless?”

Q’uille hesitates, taps his thumbs against each other. “Uh…yes ‘n’ no. I know we’re gonna beat this Umbral Calamity no problem, but till then, I can’t go back t’ the Source. Can’t go back t’ my ma. I know I can technically go any time, but….” He exhales lowly. “I’m stuck.”

“‘Tis true that there is much and more to be done to prevent the Calamity,” G’raha admits. “But when this is done, you _will_ see the Source again. You will see your mother again. I swear it.”

Q’uille’s mouth lifts lazily. “What, are ye gonna drag me to her by my ear?”

“If it comes to that, then so be it.” G’raha allows a small smile. “But I’ve a feeling it won’t. We have our work cut out for us, but we have already made strides. The blue sky above us can attest to that. Have faith, my friend.”

Q’uille nods. The gentle curling of his tail-tip and the perk of his ears both speak to his improved mood. “How’re ye so good at motivational speeches?”

G’raha stands, gripping his staff again. “Years of practice. I should be off.”

Q’uille follows suit. “Same here. Urianger’s not gonna find ‘imself, huh?”

“Indeed. Be safe during your travels, Q’uille.”

“Don’t work yerself too hard, Exarch.”

“No promises.”

As they part ways—Q’uille heading to the Pendants, G’raha to the Tower—G’raha can’t help but worry. 

When charting this plan to save the First and the Source, he’d known tearing Q’uille from his family and friends would hurt. At the time, he’d been able to justify it. But now, dealing with Q’uille’s pain, and living a lie in addition, is much harder than he thought it would be.

Still, he must. No matter how great the pain, it would be a thousand times worse if what he’d seen came to pass.

Q’uille and the other Scions _will_ see their families again. No matter the cost.


	3. name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> G'raha is found out.

The first time Q’uille says G’raha’s name while in the First, it’s too early. He stares up at the Crystal Tower for the first time with mismatched eyes, mouth set into a grim line that’s out of place. He asks, “Was there anyone in there goin’ by the name o’ G’raha Tia?”

The name—long unheard, long unspoken—sends a thrill through G’raha. It electrifies his core, makes his heart ache with desire. He longs to rip off the hood and say, _It’s me! I’m here!_ Now knowing that the Warrior of Light hadn’t forgotten him, that he was still on the forefront of the man’s mind, how can he want anything but to share the truth?

But, of course, he can’t. He purses his lips in thought and echoes, “G’raha Tia…? No, I can’t say any records exist of anyone with that name.” The lie is bitter acid on his tongue. “We may investigate further once we have saved this world, however. Let’s be off.”

He tells himself it isn’t disappointment on Q’uille’s face. How can it be? Surely after so long, after so many trials, he would have forgotten G’raha.

A small part of himself whispers that he hadn’t forgotten Q’uille.

Still, Q’uille shrugs, and they’re able to move on. G’raha’s breath is one of relief; perhaps his plan will bear fruit yet.

◾

The second time Q’uille says his name, it’s still too early.

“Ye remind me o’ a friend.” He’s in the Ocular, waiting for the others to arrive so they can plan. “G’raha.”

Again, the name sends his instincts into a frenzy. He wants to cry, to shout in joy at being known—but he _isn’t_ known, not really. He’s still anonymous. He still has a plan to enact. He still needs to save two worlds, and Q’uille besides. 

He somehow manages to keep his voice level as he replies, “You mentioned him when you first arrived.”

The smile on Q’uille’s face is soft, tender. It’s not at all like the grin he affects for jokes, though it’s no less joyful. His eyes are distant, seeing through one of the walls to who knows where. “Yer like ’im. I can’t put my finger on it, but…he’d like ye."

At the moment, G’raha couldn’t like himself any less. His stomach twists, and again, the urge to vomit the truth swells in him. “I’m honored you think so.”

Alisaie enters then, sparing G’raha another opportunity to come clean.

_This plan must succeed._

◾

The third time Q’uille says G’raha’s name, his blood runs cold.

The Warrior of Darkness is on his knees, dying and exuding Light. He coughs up glowing alabaster ichor, the substance dripping from his lips. His form shakes; his ears press against his head and his tail thrashes wildly. His lance lies on the ground at his side, and the other Scions are left to watch helplessly.

G’raha is too focused, too panicked to notice anything but his own magic as he tries with all his strength to take the pain away. The Light surges through his fingers, up his arms, until it swells his heart and makes it burn like it’s going to explode.

“G’raha?”

Q’uille’s voice is weak, confused, outraged. It’s taken all his strength to say it, but say it he did—and G’raha’s heart stops. It’s then that he notices his hood has flown off. But it’s too late; his Warrior has found him out, but there’s nothing to be done. _I will save him._

He offers Q’uille a smile, even as his own soul begins to ignite with pain and Light. He means to reassure Q’uille, to tell him that this is how it should be. He’s perfectly happy sacrificing himself for Q’uille, the First, the Source.

But then his back explodes in pain. He cries out, the blood-red hurt making his mind go blank as he falls. But he can hear his name again, screamed as best it can be, worry and fury and pain in it all at once.

That’s the last thing he hears before darkness claims him.

◾

Emet-Selch, too, tries to say G’raha’s name, but it isn’t the same.

“What did he call you?” he drones, arms crossed in front of him. “G’raha?”

The way the Ascian forms the name—dull, flat, seeking to harm rather than to know—doesn’t send a rush through G’raha. Emet-Selch doesn’t own it the way Q’uille does. He doesn’t know it so intimately. It’s merely a word.

So G’raha bares his teeth in a feral grin, pupils narrowed into furious slits. “Your pronunciation is abysmal.”

The Ascian scoffs and brushes off the insult, but he reverts to _Exarch_ after that. G’raha can only hope during this period spent nameless once again that he did enough to save Q’uille.

◾

The fourth time Q’uille says his name, G’raha can’t take it anymore.

The Warrior of Light stands there with the setting sun behind him, the sky molten gold above the ruins of Amaurot. G’raha’s muscles ache and quiver and threaten to give out, but he forces himself to stand, to apologize to the group of people who would have given their lives for his cause.

Q’uille’s hair glistens in the golden sun and droplets shimmer on his face. His hair hangs limp around his shoulders, though his ears are perked in obvious interest. The smile on his face—tender, happy—stops G’raha in his tracks.

“Good t’ see ye awake, G’raha Tia.”

G’raha’s soul cracks with relief. After so long of being nameless, of being so sure that he would die being forgotten and having never heard his own name again—after so long of hiding himself….

He snaps. His eyes fill with water, and he can’t hold it. He can’t stop the streak of tears through the salt and blood on his face, or the ragged sob that escapes him. It’s a momentary lapse, but it’s enough.

“Well…‘tis good to be awake.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that's the end of the short chapters :) from here on out they'll be much longer and have more satisfying content LOL i promise ♥ thank you again for reading this far!


	4. touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A moment in which G'raha realizes just how much he's missed.

When was the last time he’d been touched?

After the Warriors of Darkness defeated Hades and rescued G’raha, he was overjoyed, relieved—but tired. Thancred clapped him on the back to rally him together and had thought nothing of it.

But now, weeks later, G’raha’s shoulder still burns from the touch. He keeps an eye on Thancred, anticipating another point of contact, perhaps even eagerly. It’s not that he’s attracted to Thancred. The man is handsome, to be sure, but…he isn’t Q’uille.

It’s still enough to get G’raha to think, however. How long has it been? The simple touch was enough to electrify him to his core, to send a tremor through him. Thancred hadn’t noticed—or if he had, he’d been polite enough not to say anything.

When G’raha was younger, back in the Source, he’d been much more physically affectionate. He loved touching others. He still does, given his reaction to Thancred’s hand. But as the Crystal Exarch, he’s had to maintain a distance, a sense of professionalism. He’s had to lead. He’s had to sacrifice much: his name, his identity, even his comforts.

But now all of that is cracking. The Warriors of Darkness are chipping away at the shell he’s created for himself, the persona he’s crafted to survive this world without recognition. He’s becoming himself again. 

But he has far to go before he’s used to being G’raha Tia again. A thrill still runs through his core when he hears his name, particularly when it falls from Q’uille’s lips. As he reads tomes in the Ocular, he finds himself dragging his fingers up and down one forearm, trying to emulate someone else’s touch. His skin tingles, but it isn’t the same.

“Workin’ hard or hardly workin’?”

He jumps at the voice. Q’uille is leaning in the doorway, arms crossed and a grin on his face. The mere sight of him is still enough to make G’raha’s stomach twist with affection; mismatched eyes, one gold and one azure, glimmer, and mostly-black hair shines down to his shoulders, freshly-washed. He looks comfortable in his casual wear: a jacket strapped over his chest, tall boots of supple leather on his legs.

“Q’uille,” G’raha says, trying to school himself into calmness again. “I apologize. I didn’t see you come in.”

“Aye, I noticed.” Q’uille’s voice is light with laughter, and it brings an unbidden smile to G’raha’s lips. “I’ve been standin’ ‘ere a while. Somethin’ on yer mind?”

“Ah, no. Nothing of import.”

“Just daydreamin’, then?”

G’raha hesitates before he nods.

Q’uille uncrosses his arms and steps further into the room. Books are tucked in corners, the table before G’raha scattered with papers and inkwells. “Maybe ye should take a rest. Daydreamin’s the first sign o' a tired mind.”

G’raha shakes his head. “Thank you for your concern, but I’m alright. There is too much to be done.”

“Uh-huh.” Q’uille stops next to G’raha and leans on one hand against the table. “I know yer tired.”

“I’m fine.”

“Then why’ve ye got letters on yer face?”

“I’m afraid I don’t kn—”

G’raha freezes when Q’uille’s fingers slot under his chin, thumb brushing against his cheek. A tremble runs through him, and his stomach dances alongside the heat on his face.

“Got ‘em,” Q’uille reports. G’raha doesn’t respond, his mind too blank to even wonder what the other man just did. “Ye alright?”

The warm fingers are still on G’raha’s chin. “I….” His mind is full of white noise, trying to find purchase on any thought that doesn’t have to do with the point of contact.

Once again, the question runs through his mind. _How long has it been?_ This is worse than Thancred’s slap on the shoulder. This is sustained, this is tender, this is—Q’uille. The man whom G’raha has awaited for a century. Whom G’raha has never forgotten. Whose memory has never dimmed. Whose star has charted his course.

_Twelve preserve me._

“Raha?”

That just makes matters _worse_. The name sends a bolt of lightning through G’raha’s stomach, making his heart stir. He can’t keep a strangled groan from escaping, and against every fiber in his body, he leans away from Q’uille’s hand. “I—I apologize. It’s j-just….” 

He inhales deeply. His chin still burns and tickles with want. His chest vibrates with his heartbeat. He counts down from twenty as he tries to gather his scattered thoughts. When at last he responds, he can only hope he doesn’t sound so flustered.

“Nobody has…touched me. In a long time. Not without the intent of harming, at least.”

“Oh,” Q’uille says, taking his hand back. “Sorry, should I not’ve—?”

“No, no—please,” G'raha is quick to reassure. “On the contrary, it wasn’t unwelcome. I’m simply unused to it.”

Q’uille nibbles on his lower lip in thought as he stares at G’raha. His gaze is sharp and piercing; it feels like G’raha has laid bare his soul.

After a few long moments of silence, G’raha shifts in his seat and says, “Er…did you come for any particular reason, Q’uille?”

“Not allowed t’ jus’ see my good friend? Ouch.”

“Well, given the nature of my work, I do need two business days’ notice before any social visits.” G’raha is grateful for the humor; after such a confession, he wasn’t sure how he’d come back from it.

Q’uille laughs. “Lyna sent me. She’s still worryin’.” 

G’raha smiles. “She should hardly be worrying about me so much. I’m the one locked safely away in the Tower.”

“That’s _why_ she’s worryin’.” Q’uille casts his gaze around the room. “Hey, where d’ye sleep?”

“Wh—” Heat flushes in G’raha’s cheeks. “What?”

“Yer bed, Raha. Where’s it at?”

“…Through there.” G’raha nods to a small door, camouflaged unless one knows to look for it. “Why do you ask?”

“‘Cause I wanna show ye the wonders o' a mid-afternoon nap.” Q’uille prods at the door, and his white-capped tail curls happily when it opens. 

“I’ve taken naps before.”

Q’uille’s voice carries from the dark room. “Ye need one now more’n ever.” He appears in the doorway again to lean against it with his forearm. His boots are off, his outfit missing several other articles. His jacket hangs open, buttons undone. “Well?”

G’raha elects to focus on something other than the bronzed chest peeking out. “Where did your shoes go?”

“I told ye I’m showin’ ye how t’ nap.” 

Heat again crosses G’raha’s cheeks. “You don’t mean—”

“Oh, I _mean_. Are ye comin’ or what?”

G’raha and Q’uille stare each other down, each unmoving. G’raha can’t speak for the other man, but he knows he won’t be able to sleep in the same bed. Not after being alone for so long. Not after yearning specifically for the Warrior of Light for a century. Not after nearly breaking down at a mere thumb against his cheek.

Still, he wants to. By the _Twelve_ , does he want to. His heart pounds against his chest, demanding he go straight to Q’uille’s arms. What’s the harm? He certainly can’t focus on anything about the soul vessels when he’s worried about a simple touch sending his brain haywire.

“Exarch. I _will_ make ye.”

“Fine. You win.” G’raha stands and makes his way to Q’uille. “But you understand the risks.”

“What risks?” Q’uille asks. He doesn’t move, so they’re soon standing far too close. “Yer docile as a lamb.” His lopsided grin gleams.

G’raha’s heart responds for him by skipping a beat. Mercifully, Q’uille steps away, letting him into the room.

Compared to the rest of the Tower, his bedroom is small and dark. There’s a window, enough to set the golden sunshafts of the setting sun against the far wall. His bed, unmade, is little more than a mound of blankets and pillows at this point. He’d be self-conscious if he didn’t know Q’uille was just as untidy.

“Get comfortable,” Q’uille says, his back to G’raha. “I won’t look. Swear.”

“Why didn’t you just wait outside?”

“‘Cause then I’d have t’ walk there. I’m already ready t’ drop.” He gives G’raha a toothy smile over his shoulder. “Ye trust me.”

“That’s not in question.” _And it’s also not why my chest is going to explode._ G’raha turns from Q’uille, gathering his pajamas.

He glances over his shoulder before he unlaces his robe. True to his word, Q’uille stares resolutely at the wall. It would be a good opportunity for a prank, if G’raha weren’t jittering with anticipation. He can’t focus enough to think of one.

He changes into his pajamas quickly. They’re simple and comfortable and—he realizes as he turns to Q’uille again—show much more of his body than he usually does. Not a scandalous amount, of course. But the crystal along his collarbones is visible, as it is midway down his thigh.

He presses his lips together and rubs a thumb over the crystal of his right hand. After so long, the Tower has become embedded in him, part of him. It started with just his hand, but has since grown. The crystal coats most of his torso now, and is starting to creep down his thigh. There’s nothing to be done for it, particularly not in the seconds before Q’uille sees the extent of it, but…G’raha is still self-conscious.

“Raha?”

Q’uille has turned around, gaze locked on G’raha. His eyes are dark in the low light. He approaches, then hesitantly holds a hand over G’raha’s crystal arm. “Can I…?”

G’raha nods before he can consider, already subconsciously lifting his arm to meet the touch.

Q’uille’s hand is warm and rough. The touch is simple and chaste, but it’s enough to set the butterflies in his stomach free, to make his mind scramble. When Q’uille slides his hand down, closer to G’raha’s own, it just gets worse.

“Crystal’s warmer’n I thought,” Q’uille mumbles. His lips quirk in a small smile. “Ye always ran warm, though.”

G’raha can’t respond, because Q’uille’s second hand wraps lightly around his other bicep. That touch scatters G’raha’s thoughts further, makes him shiver in anticipation. Q’uille’s palm burns against G’raha’s skin, imprinting on his body.

“I—I thought we were taking a nap,” he struggles to say. He’s unable to keep the tremble out of his voice.

“We are. But I figured ye could use some…what’s the word?” Q’uille squeezes his hands. “Acclimatizin’?”

“Acc…acclimating?” 

“That one.”

Q’uille rubs his hands up and down G’raha’s arms. Tears spring into his eyes, the feeling of someone else’s skin against his own a little overwhelming. He tries desperately to blink the moisture away. 

Q’uille notices. He stops his movements, gaze careful on G’raha’s face. “Ye alright?”

G’raha nods, mute. He knows he’d sob if he opened his mouth.

Still, a tear falls. Before he can do anything about it, Q’uille’s rough palm is against his cheek, thumb wiping away the droplet. That just sends more tremors through G’raha’s soul, though. Before he knows it, Q’uille has both hands cupping his face as he wipes away tears.

“I—I’m s—”

“Don’t ye dare apologize,” Q’uille interrupts. “I’d be a mess if I didn’t touch nobody for _one_ year, let alone a hundred.”

G’raha curls his hands against Q’uille’s sides, trying to ground himself. It’s no use, though; the dam has broken open, and he can’t stop the flood. It just feels _good_ to have caring hands against him, to finally have someone to wipe away his tears. Lyna did her best, and she’s been a fantastic friend, but G’raha still held her at a distance. She never got close enough for something like this. 

With Q’uille, though, he can’t help himself.

His breath hitches when Q’uille's arms wrap around him. His hand rests on the back of G’raha’s head, chin nuzzled against G’raha’s shoulder. G’raha’s heart flutters like a bird as his body sings, relishing in the feel of Q’uille against him.

He brings his own arms around Q’uille to dig his fingers in the fabric of the other man’s jacket. He digs his face in Q’uille’s shoulder, cheeks burning hot. They stick to the fabric, soaking it through, but neither of them seems to care.

_How long has it been?_

G'raha knows the last hug he shared was with NOAH, likely with Q'uille himself, even. But how long has it been since he cried like this? With someone watching, willing to comfort? Again, he feels overwhelmed with the amount of turmoil within himself: despair at the long, lonely years—but joy at having found companionship again.

He doesn’t know how long they stand like that, him sobbing against Q’uille. Eventually, he feels drained, eyes raw with the inability to shed more tears. He continues gasping his breaths, but he’s stopped shaking, at least. Still, he doesn’t speak, unwilling to break the twilight spell that’s fallen over them.

“Better?” Q’uille murmurs.

“I might need another few moments to decide.”

“Take all the time ye need.”

G’raha melts further against Q’uille. He feels at home. How many nights did he dream about being in this very scenario when he was young? When he and Q’uille were first investigating the Crystal Tower together? How many innocent touches did they share? He hadn’t thought twice of them then, but now, one brush of Q’uille’s thumb is enough to shake him to his core.

“Thank you,” he finally forces out.

“‘Course,” Q’uille says, still rubbing the back of G’raha’s head. “World needs t’ show ye a lil’ bit more love.”

G’raha chokes out a laugh. “Much of this is self-imposed, I’m ashamed to admit.”

“Self-love, then.”

Q’uille pulls away, and G’raha has to swallow the urge to pull him back into the embrace. He rubs his palm against G’raha’s cheek, wiping away residual tears.

“Ready for that nap?” Q’uille asks. “After all that, I _know_ yer tired.”

G’raha can’t stop his gaze from drifting to his bed. It’s a siren song, given how loose his limbs and how heavy his eyelids are. “I…could rest my eyes for a few moments.”

Q’uille grins. “That’s what I like t’ hear.”

He’s gone within a blink, and for a second, G’raha’s throat closes. But, no—he’s right there, sitting in the bed and trying to figure out the blankets. His brow furrows as he slowly untangles them and drapes them over his legs.

“How d’ ye sleep with yer blankets like this?”

“Perfectly well.”

“Yer a bleedin’ liar.”

G’raha snickers next to the bed, still waiting for Q’uille to settle down. “I’ll just have to tangle them up again once you’re gone.”

“Or ye'll see the error o’ yer ways ‘n’ finally sleep like a normal miqo.”

“How, pray tell, does a ‘normal’ miqo’te sleep?”

“I’ll show ye.” Q’uille, satisfied with the ordering of the blankets, pulls them back to make a small spot for G’raha. He gives G’raha a big smile and pats the bed next to him. “No time like the present.”

G’raha is still nervous. Even after hugging Q’uille for who knows how long, his heart vibrates at the thought of being in such close quarters. He can’t decide if it’s a result of his starvation for touch, his feelings for Q’uille, or an unpleasant combination of the two. 

But he’s come this far.

He sits down and pulls his legs under the blankets. He wrinkles his nose at the weight—does he truly have so many coverings? He will melt under this many, he knows. Particularly with Q’uille in the bed. Even if the man _didn’t_ run warmer than most, it’d be uncomfortable.

It isn’t until they’re laying side-by-side that G’raha realizes what a grave mistake he’s made. Q’uille wastes no time in wrapping his arms _and legs_ around G’raha and snuggling his head against G’raha’s shoulder. The skin of his chest is warm and soft against G’raha’s arm. He can feel Q’uille’s beating heart, his sinuous muscles.

He forgets how to breathe.

“I’d say I’m sorry for cuddlin’, but I remember yer a cuddler, too," Q'uille says, voice soft. "Deep down.”

“How do you know that?”

“Back with NOAH, ye were always wrapped ‘round your bow when ye were sleepin’. Thought ye were just defensive at first, but one night I saw ye kissin’ it—”

“I—I was _not_.”

Q’uille’s stomach flutters with laughter against G’raha’s arm as he buries his grin against it. “I know what I saw.”

“I would never!”

“Was real admirable,” Q’uille argues. “I said, ‘Now there’s—’” He devolves into snickers. “‘— _there’s_ a man who appreciates a weapon.’”

G’raha allows himself a small, silent chuckle. Now, he can’t remember if there’s any truth to Q’uille’s claims, but they’re not so far-fetched. He had quite…imaginative dreams when he was younger. Q’uille himself may have starred in a few. Who knows?

They fall into a comfortable silence. G’raha pulls his arm away from Q’uille to wrap it around his torso. Q’uille doesn’t hesitate before moving closer, slotting himself against G’raha’s side.

The longer they lay together, the less his heart vibrates, the less his blood sings. It grows more natural with every breath, like his body is learning how to be itself, how to be with others, again.

“…‘m glad it’s ye,” Q’uille mumbles into G’raha’s shirt.

“As am I. I would not give this time I’ve had with you for the world, stolen as it may be.”

“Still can’t believe ye thought I wouldn’t be able t’ save yer sorry ass.”

“Perhaps not my finest moment, but all that matters is that you survived.”

“‘N’ you.”

Q’uille’s voice is only the softest of mumbles, the man likely well on his way to sleep. G’raha can only admire how quickly he’s fallen unconscious. Admittedly, though, his own eyelids weigh heavier and heavier with each passing moment. He lets them slide shut. He sinks deeper and deeper into Q’uille’s arms; his skin itself embraces the newfound touch.

He can’t remember when he last felt so right.

There’s a pounding at his door and it’s going to drive him _insane_.

G’raha blearily blinks open his eyes. Stars stud the dark sky outside the window. He doesn’t have all his wits about him yet, but he recognizes that knock. It’s likely just Lyna, looking for him to handle some Crystarium matter or the other.

“Come in,” he calls, not bothering to sit up. Lyna has seen him at his worst; she can handle him half-asleep.

He knows he’s made a mistake when he rolls over, nuzzling his nose against a soft ear that flicks in response. The smell of Q’uille overwhelms his senses—lemons and sandalwood.

_Oh gods._

The door opens and Lyna’s purposeful stride fills the room, along with a light she’s brought. “Exarch, I—o-oh.” 

G’raha squints back at Lyna, lifting a hand to block the lamp. He can only imagine how he looks. His tongue feels like sandpaper, he can only _just_ open his eyes thanks to the sleep caked in them, and much of his hair is hanging in front of his face.

“Yes, Lyna?”

“I…did not mean to intrude.” She isn’t looking at him. “If you were busy, you could have—”

“Lyna—”

“I am not one to judge, of course, we all have our outlets. I am simply glad you’ve found a way to—”

“Lyna. Stop.” G’raha laughs despite the heat in his face. “We were just napping. We’re clothed.”

G’raha looks down at Q’uille, whose arms are still wrapped around his waist even though he’s since sat up. He’s dead asleep still. Has he always been such a heavy sleeper?

“Well,” Lyna says, “be that as it may, Exarch, I did not intend to disturb your rest. I will go and—”

G’raha shakes his head. “It’s fine. I should be getting back to work anyway.” Even with the words, he hesitates, staring down at Q’uille.

“I…will await you in the Umbilicus, then.”

“Thank you, Lyna.”

G’raha doesn’t move until Lyna shuts the door behind her. He gently removes Q’uille’s arms from his waist; Q’uille grumbles in his sleep and curls into a ball against G’raha’s thigh.

It tingles with the warmth.

He scoots away and tucks the most prominent strand of white hair away from Q’uille’s face. The Warrior of Light pouts in his sleep, lower lip stuck out just a little. The black face paint is smudged on his cheek. He breathes deeply, one arm cushioned under his head.

G’raha wants to kiss him.

He nearly bolts out of bed with the thunderous desire, but he stays put. It’s nothing new; he’s known about these feelings since he first sealed himself in the Tower so long ago. Being like this with Q’uille makes them harder to ignore, though; he’d convinced himself he was over the crush. Apparently not.

He should get up and go to Lyna, but he hesitates. Who knows when they’ll get a moment alone like this again? Who knows when he will even see Q’uille _asleep_ again? The man seems to defy the need.

G’raha leans down to press his lips against Q’uille’s forehead, just at the base of his ear. It’s wishful thinking, but he can swear that Q’uille sighs and melts a little in response.

He smooths over Q’uille’s hair one last time before he stands. His body already misses the attention. Even drawing his hand up his own arm doesn’t relieve the uneasiness, just tickling his skin. 

At least he had a reprieve.


	5. sunrise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A restless moment.

G’raha is sweaty, his limbs are twisted uncomfortably in his blankets, and his eyes just won’t close. He’s been staring at his dark ceiling for the past—he can’t even begin to guess. It’s been a long time. Too long.

His mind races, still trying to think of ways to send the Scions home. He doesn’t know why, but he feels that time is running out. The ache in his crystal arm grows worse, the azure stone spreading further under his clothes. The Scions keep losing their consciousness. He has to send them home. If he doesn’t— 

No. He can’t entertain that thought. He _will_. He has a Plan B, though everyone seems loath to consider it. G’raha, however, has always been a pragmatist: one life in exchange for five seems a worthy trade to him, particularly when it comes to the Scions.

Though he doesn’t want to follow that path. He’s been bashing his head against the spirit vessel for what feels like ages in an attempt to figure out a solution. Yet no matter how many times he tries to imbue it, or Beq Lugg suggests he do something else, he can’t get it.

All his years of wisdom, and now, they add up to naught.

He gives a frustrated growl and tries to stand. Blankets fall from his form, and he has to carefully step over them to avoid tripping. The sky outside is brightening, that cold blue of the morning before the sun has risen. Aromatic dew drifts on the wind, even this high.

Perhaps a walk is exactly what he needs. He throws on a robe and some shoes, electing for far less ornate trappings than his usual Exarch attire. There will hardly be anyone awake, so he has no need for decorum. 

As soon as he’s out of the Tower, an inhale of the crisp early-morning air soothes his mind. He counts his steps as he wanders aimlessly, focusing on the number rather than on what his thoughts have tended to focus on in quiet moments of late. He hates to admit it, but sometimes, taking a break is all one needs.

The Exedra is often quieter than most other gathering places in the Crystarium, but G’raha still thinks it strange that not another soul is walking through it. His feet carry him towards the Pendants. As he meanders past them, staring up at the arched windows, his mind inevitably strays to Q’uille. 

G’raha hopes that he, at least, is finding peaceful sleep. He sleeps far too little for G’raha’s tastes, but now that the Eighth Umbral Calamity has been averted, he’s been finding his way to his suite more often. Ryne like as not has much to do with it; where the others will suggest rest once and be done, she will insist on it until the target of her concerns acquiesces. G’raha himself has been her focus often before.

The Wandering Stairs is empty, all of the merchandise behind the bar locked up for the night. At least the lanterns on the tables provide him a bright, merry stroll through the dormant social hub. The lemon trees around the perimeter are blossoming, sending citrus dancing through the air.

He only needs to push on the wooden gate softly for it to swing open. He sneaks through the small opening, then shuts it. The night is peaceful, and he’d rather not shatter the illusion with the sounds of a cumbersome gate opening and shutting.

Once on the grass of the Quadrivium, he pauses a moment to take off his sandals. He grins at the feeling of dewy grass tickling his feet—how long has it been since he indulged in so simple a joy? 

He walks towards Sweetsieve, sandal straps in hand. He skirts around the edges of the gardening center, not _quite_ wanting to get dirt on his soles. The grape vines and apple trees are all blooming, sending the heady aroma of blossoms swirling around him.

Once he reaches the stone pathway leading to the Lakeland bridge, he slips his sandals on again. In the night, the Rotunda is a sight to behold; the aetheryte inside gleams merrily, sending sparkles through the stained-glass dome it’s housed in. He doesn’t enter, instead opting to go forward to the Rookery.

The amaro are still dozing, though a few are already up and milling about, pecking at the dirt underneath their talons. When G’raha approaches the fence, an amaro strays near, fixing him with an eye and clicking its beak. He reaches his flesh hand out to stroke his fingers through its feathers. They’re smooth like water against his skin.

The amaro croons, leaning heavily into his hand. He laughs softly, ruffling the feathers once more before he takes his hand back. The amaro sticks its head over the fence, no doubt looking for more pets.

G’raha shakes his head and sets his palm on the amaro’s head. “Insatiable, aren’t you?” he asks quietly, stroking his fingertips through the feathers. He slowly strokes his fingers down the amaro’s head, until he’s scratching its chin. The amaro tilts its head up and trills quietly, ruffling its wings.

When G’raha pulls his hand away this time, the amaro huffs and walks away. G’raha smiles at it for another moment before he looks up at the sky. The stars are still out, though they’re set on a blue-gray backdrop now. Yellow tints the horizon behind the Crystal Tower.

And on the top of the Rookery watchtower sits a small black silhouette.

G’raha squints at the silhouette. He’s far too low to be able to properly identify who it is, but it certainly isn’t a guard. As far as he’s aware, none are ever stationed on that tower during the twilight hours, unless Lyna has changed things.

Curious and seeing no reason not to investigate, G’raha ascends the sizable staircase of the tower. The metal steps feel flimsy under his feet, but he’s retained the sure-footedness of his youth, if little else. He climbs quickly, though by the time he reaches the top, he’s panting lightly. 

This close to the silhouette, he can recognize who it is: Q’uille. 

His hair, unusually, is tied back in a ponytail, and his sleek black tail curls around his own waist. His arms rest on his thighs, his bare feet swinging in the air, as he looks up at the Crystal Tower. His loose yellow pajamas are rumpled, showing his restlessness (if his presence alone didn’t do that already). He sits to the right of the metal arch that supports the stained-glass roof of the tower.

“Lovely night, isn’t it?” G’raha asks to announce his presence.

Q’uille barely flicks an ear. “Figures we’d be the only two souls what’re awake in the whole Crystarium, huh?”

“Some of the amaro are awake, at least.” G’raha carefully sits next to Q’uille, hanging his own feet over the edge of the platform. “Is something the matter, my friend?”

Q’uille shakes his head. “Nah. I jus’ like watchin’ the sunrise.” He offers G’raha a mug full of a steaming white liquid. “Want some?”

“What is it?”

“It….” Q’uille blinks down at the mug himself. “…I don't rightly know. Don’t exist in the Source, but it’s good.”

G’raha takes the mug gently before he sips the substance. Sweetness curls around his tongue, something like warm cream. It settles low in his stomach and fights away the early morning chill. He takes a longer sip.

Q’uille laughs. “Guess yer stealin’ it, then.”

“Yes,” G’raha says as he lowers the mug, holding it between his own hands. “I’m stealing this. Where did you find it?”

“Small cart over in the markets. Lalafel sellin’ mornin’ goods. Asked what was good, ‘n’ she gave me this.”

“You’ll have to show me sometime. I could do with more of this concoction.” G’raha takes another sip, his tail twisting in pleasure.

“Will do.” Q’uille returns his gaze forward, looking across the Crystalline Mean. “Why’re _you_ awake?”

“I…had a lot on my mind.” G’raha looks down at the cup, only a third of the way full. “I needed to take a walk.”

“What’s on yer mind?”

“The Scions.” G’raha exhales slowly, tightening his grip on the mug. “I’m no closer to a solution, though I’ve been working day and night to find it. I fear what will happen if I never do.”

“Hey.” Q’uille bumps his shoulder against G’raha’s, and G’raha nearly jumps at the contact. “Yer doin’ all ye can. Anyroad, yer all the smartest folks I know. If none of ye can figure it out, then it’s impossible t’ solve.”

G’raha exhales slowly. “Many called our plan to send the Crystal Tower to the First impossible. If I can do that, and not this, then….”

“Yer beatin’ yerself up too much. Look at me.”

When G’raha drags his gaze from the mug to Q’uille, his heart stutters. Q’uille stares at him head-on, brow furrowed in determination. His duo-colored eyes look like gems in the low light.

“Raha, yer smart ‘n’ dedicated ‘n’ ye’ll figure this out. Ye’ve done the impossible afore, ‘n’ ye can do it again. If ye don’t, then it’s not yer fault. Ye wouldn’t blame Alphy or Urianger or Shtola, right?”

G’raha shakes his head.

“Then don’t blame yerself neither.” Q’uille’s serious expression melts into a small, worried smile. He lifts a hand to squeeze G’raha’s shoulder. “That blame’s hurtin’ ye, not helpin’.”

G’raha lets the words sink in before he nods. “You’re right. I will endeavor to blame myself less in the future.” Unable to stop himself, he adds, “I apologize f—”

“Stop.” Q’uille shakes his head and takes his hand back. “No apologizin’. We’re _friends_ , Raha. Dealin’ with yer doubts is the least I can do.”

“If you’re not careful, I might begin to take advantage of that.”

“I hope ye do.”

G’raha turns his small grin to the horizon. The sky above the Crystalline Mean heralds the sun’s arrival, burning orange-yellow. As the gold light grows, it reflects on the Crystal Tower. G’raha tilts his head, mesmerized with the beauty. How long has it been since he last saw the sun’s ascent? And how long has it been since he forgot how beautiful it is?

“Reminds me o’ NOAH.”

G’raha furrows his brow. “In what way?”

“I’d watch sunrises then, too. Jus’...seein’ the light on the Tower made me feel better. Saw it once when I couldn’t sleep, ‘n’ after that, couldn’t stop. Made me think o’ home.”

“Limsa Lominsa?”

Q’uille nods. “Looks jus’ like the sea.”

“Does the view still remind you of it?”

“Mm, aye. A different home, but it does.”

“A different home?”

“Startin’ t’ think home might be a person ‘n’ not a place.”

When G’raha looks at Q’uille, he nearly jumps to find the other’s gaze already trained on him. Still, he offers a tentative smile. “I might have to agree.”

Q’uille mirrors the expression. It’s gone within a moment, though, replaced by a much more melancholy expression. He returns his gaze to the horizon. “D’ye remember….” He trails off, then presses his lips together. “Mm.”

“What is it, Q’uille?”

“D’ye remember when we finished with the Crystal Tower? ‘N’ ye went alone t’ close it without sayin’ goodbye?”

G’raha flinches. Not his finest moment. He looks down at his mug, nearly-forgotten. “I do.” He doesn’t regret sealing himself in the Tower, but he could have at least told the others his plan. He supposes he’s always been self-sacrificial. “For what it’s worth—”

“I’m not lookin’ for an apology,” Q’uille cuts in. “All worked out, eh?” He inhales, and his tail drapes itself between them. “Jus’…after ye left, ‘n’ the Tower was closed, I watched the sunrise one last time. Wanted t’ remember home ‘n’ what I still had, but all I could think was it was over. No more Tower t’ explore. Felt like I lost a home.”

His brow furrows in thought as he stares down at his hands, his voice hesitant and low. “‘N’ then, after we killed Hades ‘n’ got ye back, I realized it weren’t the Tower at all what I was missin’.” He turns his gaze to G’raha, eyes pleading for him to understand.

It’s impossible not to. And it’s impossible for G’raha’s heart to not ache at the thought of Q’uille missing him. He can certainly understand—after he was awoken, there was no person he’d rather have seen than Q’uille, impossible as it might have been. And in the century he’s spent in the First, the same has held true. 

Yet he still feels guilty. “It was never my intention to hurt you.” A paltry apology, even he admits.

“I know.” Q’uille smiles. “‘N’ yer here now.”

“Should fate permit, I would not leave your side again.”

“Ye better not. I’d cause a calamity m’self jus’ t’ scold ye.”

G’raha laughs loudly, freely. His chuckles echo down below, yet with how early it is, he can’t find it in himself to be self-conscious. “I will endeavor as always to keep our world safe, then.”

Q’uille snickers and leans his shoulder against G’raha’s. A thrill runs through him at the contact, but he hides it by taking a sip of his drink. It’s tepid now, but the sweetness still makes his taste buds sing.

“How ‘bout Kholusia?” Q’uille asks. “Afore I knew ye were, well…you.”

“What about it?”

“Ye were talkin’ ‘bout wantin’ t’ travel the world with someone.”

“I was.” 

The memory brings a smile to G’raha’s face. At the time, he’d been in pain; he’d ached enough with want that it nearly ruined him, and yet he was glad to know that, even if Q’uille didn’t recognize him, he still cared. He was glad to share the desires with Q’uille, even if he had to keep them anonymous.

“Is that still on the table?” Q’uille’s voice falters and hesitates again.

“What do you mean?”

“Would ye still wanna travel with ‘im? If ‘e offered.”

G’raha looks at Q’uille, unable to hide the earnest expression. Q’uille still seems thoughtful, looking down at the rookery below. A white, unbound strand of his hair dances on the breeze towards G’raha.

“Nothing would make me happier,” G’raha says. It’s his turn to plead with his eyes for Q’uille to understand. He ignores the world around them, focused entirely on Q’uille, the expectation nearly killing him.

He intends the words to make Q’uille happy, but if anything, he looks more melancholy. His brow furrows, and his lips pinch down. His ears, too, flop a little, and his tail curls a little tighter. That’s not right.

G’raha lightly nudges his elbow into Q’uille’s arm. “I was speaking of you at the time, you know.”

Q’uille blinks, then looks at G’raha. “Really?”

G’raha nods, his mouth curving upwards despite himself. “Have I called anyone else my inspiration in recent memory?”

Q’uille shakes his head. “No, but…ye said _friend_ , so I assumed ye meant….” He blinks, then buries his face in G’raha’s shoulder with a groan. “Warrior o’ Darkness ‘n’ I still can’t take a gods-damned hint.”

G’raha laughs again. “You can hardly blame yourself. I was being cryptic on purpose.” Instinctually, he curls an arm around Q’uille’s shoulders, meaning to reassure him. Being able to feel Q’uille’s back, muscles shifting underneath a thin layer of fabric, lights a fire in his chest.

He meant to take his arm back after a moment, but Q’uille immediately gets comfortable, leaning into G’raha’s torso. G’raha ferries his drink to the side to avoid having it spill, because it seems that Q’uille won’t be moving anytime soon. His ears lay back in relaxed pleasure, and G’raha is grateful this new position can’t afford the other man a glance at his warm cheeks.

Q’uille spoke, but G’raha didn’t hear him, too distracted by their new position. He wants to ask what he said, but whatever it was likely didn’t bear a response, given Q’uille’s newfound silence. He leans easily against G’raha, the tip of an ear dangerously close to tickling G’raha’s mouth.

They watch the sun’s creeping ascent in silence for a while longer. The sky turns from burnished yellow to sapphire to pale blue before the sun finally peeks its edges over the mountains. The higher up it gets, the more people below begin to waken, going about their daily business.

“Raha.”

“Mm?”

“Travel the world with me. When we’re done with all o’ this.” He lifts himself a little to look back at G’raha. “Be part o’ my next adventure.”

G’raha’s mouth falls open, but he can’t speak. His heart floods with emotion, with joy, and he struggles to find any syllable of meaning within it. All he knows is that Q’uille is beautiful with the rising sun behind him, that the last time words made him tear up as he is now they were uttered by Q’uille as well, that every single thing he’s endured has been worth it to see Q’uille like this, to have that request in his ears.

“—Yes,” he finally manages to squeeze out. “Yes. Without question, my friend.” He smiles even as he wipes his tears with his crystalline hand. “As I said: I would not leave your side again.”

Q’uille shakes his head, twisting around to rub away G’raha’s tears himself. “We need t’ talk about how often ye cry.”

“I don’t cry all that often.”

“I’ve made ye do it three times now.”

“You simply have that effect on people.”

“Am I pollen?”

G’raha gives a giggle that sounds absolutely boyish, even to his own ears. “I suppose heroes and flowers have more in common than I’d considered.”

Q’uille twists back around, facing the horizon again. He reclaims his spot, tail warm as it curls around G’raha’s waist.

With the rising sun and Q’uille’s warmth against him, G’raha allows himself to close his eyes and to enjoy the moment. His mind rests, not moving at a malm-a-minute anymore. Given how often Q’uille initiates physical contact, he’s come a long way from the touch-starved Exarch he’d been.

Q’uille isn’t surprised when G’raha slumps against him, fully asleep.


	6. scar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A moment's respite on the beach.

The beaches of Kholusia are nice when the sky isn’t overwhelmed with Light. It’s warm, but not enough to make G’raha sweat, particularly under the shade of an umbrella. Q’uille lounges to his left, eyes closed as he dozes in the sunlight. The other Scions are down the beach or playing in the surf, providing the two of them at least a modicum of privacy.

Given Q’uille’s unconscious state and the fact that he’s just wearing white swim shorts, it’s only natural that G’raha allows his eyes to linger. Q’uille has earned many gleaming scars through his profession, and they pockmark him. A small nick from a sparring accident mars his chin. There’s a thick, ilm-long scar raised on his toned stomach. Under his pecs are two curves, old and nearly faded. His bicep has a thin, jagged line running down it. Striations of raised purple-pink lines from an electrical attack cover his thigh. It’s a miracle that his tail, curled at his side, isn’t missing any patches of fur.

“‘Snice out,” Q’uille grumbles, though he doesn’t open his eyes. He rolls onto his stomach, eventually burrowing into his folded arms with a satisfied _mmrh_.

The scar on his back makes G’raha’s stomach fill with lead. He hasn’t seen this one yet. Like a starburst spreading from Q’uille’s shoulder blades, the fresh, raw surface shines with an unnatural light, almost like liquid silver.

G’raha can still remember the wings poking out from Q’uille’s back, making him double over and scream in pain. He can remember desperately trying to take the Light away, too, so that Q’uille didn’t have to keep them. It had burned, but he would happily set himself aflame to keep Q’uille warm, much less alive.

“…I hadn’t realized they’d left a scar,” he murmurs. His fingers itch with the desire to trace the mottled skin, but he refrains.

“Huh?” Q’uille opens one eye, follows G’raha’s gaze, flexes his shoulders. “Oh. Aye, s’pose so. I think it looks neat.” He settles his head back on his arms.

“I’m sorry.” The words are out before G’raha can consider them, and though he knows Q’uille will deny the apology, he can’t take it back. 

Q’uille huffs and rolls his head to look at him straight on. “Raha, when’re ye gonna accept I fought the Lightwardens o’ my own free will?” 

G’raha swallows. “It was still never my intention to—” 

“Touch it.”

His cheeks heat up. “I beg your pardon?”

“Touch the scar. It don’t hurt, so it’s not a big deal. But till ye get that through yer head, yer gonna feel bad. So go ahead. Poke at it. Slap it a lil’, if ye want.” Q’uille grins lazily. “I don’t mind rough.”

G’raha presses his lips together against the instinctual flush. Really, there’s no reason to say no—save his own feelings, but he can hardly explain his way through those at the moment. And he doesn’t exactly hate the idea of touching Q’uille; he’s just a little afraid of hurting the man, if he’s completely honest.

But he _did_ say he could slap it. Surely just a light touch wouldn’t hurt, especially not the Warrior of Light. It’s easy to forget, sometimes, just how unshakable Q’uille really is. 

G’raha reaches out and hesitates for just a moment before he lightly presses his fingertips to the scar. He expects Q’uille to flinch and hiss and tense up, but he instead closes his eyes and deflates, as if the touch comforts him.

The reaction vexes G’raha, but it emboldens him, too. He presses his palm fully against the warm skin. It doesn’t feel as odd as he’d expected; he was preparing for the skin to be a little harder, more akin to the stone of a Sin Eater’s form. But it’s as soft as ever—save for the hard pack of muscle just under the surface.

“Get it now?” Q'uille doesn’t open his eyes to ask.

“What am I meant to be getting?” G’raha, unwilling to throw such an opportunity away, allows his hand to stray downwards. His fingers dance along a thin line on Q’uille’s side.

“‘S just a scar. Nothin’ t’ be sorry over.”

G'raha hums, unconvinced. “It could cause problems for you, particularly in the Source. I would understand if you felt even a little resentful.”

Q’uille scoffs. “C’mon, I’m not one for grudges. ‘Sides, I got plenty o’ scars. What’s one more?”

“I know you can’t see it very well, but it’s fairly large.”

“Listen t’ yerself,” Q’uille growls as he sits up and faces G’raha. “Look ‘ere.” He grabs G’raha’s hand and presses it firmly to one of the faded, curved lines underneath a pec. “I’ve got scars I asked for.” He drags the hand to a series of thick lines on his stomach. “‘N’ ones I didn’t really want. But the mark on my back’s definitely one I’m glad for.” His face softens into a small, lopsided smile. “So stop apologizin’. Makes me feel bad for likin’ it.”

“You like it?”

G’raha doesn’t know why he’s surprised. Without context, it _is_ a rather fetching mark. But that may just be his pesky feelings acting up again, biasing him to enjoy every facet of Q’uille’s form, even the ones he’s personally responsible for.

Still, Q’uille sets his fears to rest with a squeeze of his hand. “‘Course I do. Not everyone’s got a scar what’ll double as a candle in the dark.”

“Well, when you put it like that….”

They smile at each other in silence for a moment. That’s all the time it takes for G’raha to realize his hand is still pressed firmly against Q’uille’s stomach; the realization makes his palm burn, and he all but jumps back to cease the contact. “Ah, well, thank you. That does bring me a small bit of comfort to hear.”

“Ye worry too much. If I ‘ad a bone t’ pick with anythin’ ye did, I wouldn’t be relaxin’ on the beach with ye.” 

“That, I do not doubt.” G’raha’s mouth twists—whether in a grimace or a grin, not even he can say. “I remember when you initially arrived in the First, you were most displeased with me. ‘Twas not nearly as pleasant a situation as this.”

Q’uille waves a hand. “Well, for all I knew, ye were a perfect stranger. Shoulda just done away with that hood o’ yers right away, then I woulda been all smiles.”

“And lose the excitement of being able to dramatically reveal myself? Do you not recall how first we met?” 

It’s easy to joke about the past, although at the time, G’raha had been in anguish. It’s easy now to see that fate will always favor Q’uille, so really, there was no need for secrecy. Of course his Warrior of Light would’ve figured out a way to save them both. He’d been unstoppable when they met, and the time apart has only seen him grow in strength and ability.

But more importantly, the jest makes Q'uille throw his head back and laugh.

“There’s a point! I remember ye backflippin’ yer way off that platform. Ye just wanted t’ show me up, huh?”

“I had to try. After seeing you in action, I thought ‘twould be difficult indeed to impress you; I needed as many tricks as I could get.”

“Aw, ’m not that hard.” Q’uille’s tail flicks. “Cute face like yers woulda done me in for on sight.”

G’raha firmly looks at the nearby ocean. His cheeks warm, his tail coils, and he only barely manages not to hide his face behind his hands. He can’t even form a response, his mind going haywire— _He thinks my face is cute? Mine? The one I’ve had this whole time?_

Just how out of practice is he?

At least Q’uille takes it well, snickering and laying on his back again, arms pillowing his head. Mercifully, he elects not to make any teasing remarks, and they fall into a comfortable silence.

After that, G’raha feels less guilty whenever he steals a glance at the other man. 


	7. farewell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A moment before the unknown truly begins.

G’raha is filled with a strange sense of trepidation.

He’d known that Q’uille would return to the Source eventually, of course, but he hadn’t anticipated being here to witness it. He hadn’t thought about what it might mean, how things might change in the time between preventing the Eighth Umbral Calamity and Q’uille’s return home. Until now, it’s been a distant dream, something to worry about later.

The surface of the activated portal wavers like water. It’s bright enough to burn, so G’raha turns away from it. Q’uille stares up at it and beyond unflinchingly, shoulders back and jaw set. G’raha steps aside, forcing a smile as he gestures Q’uille through. The Warrior of Light walks forward, gaze resolute on the shimmering blue portal.

For Q’uille’s sake, G’raha is attempting to wear a brave expression. In truth, he’s plagued with doubts and worries. The rate at which time passes still roughly matches up between here and the Source, but who knows if that will last? Q’uille could be gone for days, weeks—years. G’raha would have to wait for him _again_. With the other Scions’ states deteriorating as they are, they may not have the time to do so.

Not to mention there’s still so much G’raha wishes to say. Ice seizes his heart at the thought of not seeing Q’uille for so long again. After this saturation of being in his presence, G’raha doesn’t know if he’d be able to bear it.

Q’uille is in front of him now, just a few steps from the portal. He hasn’t glanced at G’raha, the single-minded focus obvious as he continues forward.

G’raha’s hand darts out and grabs Q’uille’s wrist. He doesn’t realize what he’s done until Q’uille stops and looks back at him, eyebrows raised.

G’raha can’t find the words to say, but he can’t let go, either. He’s horrified, both at what he just did, but also at the thought of Q’uille simply disappearing through that portal without returning. Who knows what’s happening on the other side? Who knows if he’ll get swept up in current events, like he’s so prone to doing? For the first time in a long while, G’raha is operating with no clue of the future, and it’s scarier than he wants to admit.

Q’uille turns to him, mouth curving upwards. “Ye know I’m comin’ back.”

G’raha nods, throat still dry. “…Yes. I do. And yet, I—”

“Ye don’t want me t’ go.” Q’uille’s smile grows as he turns to G’raha more fully. “Not too keen on it myself, either. Already left ye once in this tower.”

G’raha drops his gaze to his hand wrapped around Q’uille’s. He loosens his grip, but Q’uille uses the newfound freedom to twist his own hand around, lacing their fingers together.

Somehow, it’s worse knowing that Q’uille doesn’t want to go. He shouldn’t have to. It’s unfair that he’s sacrificed so much of himself, and he’s still beholden to responsibilities and duties. It takes a special kind of man to be so giving, and G’raha is beginning to think he might have made a mistake in caring so deeply.

“How ‘bout I make a promise? Ye know I don’t break those easy.” Q’uille’s voice is no less reassuring, but G’raha can feel the way his fingers tighten.

“What promise would you make?”

“I swear I’ll come back, so we can talk ‘bout it.”

“About what?” G’raha lifts his gaze from their hands to the man opposite him.

Q’uille’s grin is small, shy. His cheeks are tinted red, his tail thrashes nervously behind him, and his ears are pinned back. Despite all these signs, his gaze is riveted steadfast on G’raha. G’raha means to ask if he’s alright, but Q’uille leaning closer wipes his mind clean.

His lips are soft and scalding on the corner of G’raha’s mouth. They’re only there for a moment, but they leave tremors in his skin. Q’uille pulls back with darker cheeks and a fluffed tail. G’raha watches him with wide eyes, lifting his free hand to brush the spot.

“‘Bout that.” Q’uille continues smiling for another moment before his hand slips from G’raha’s.

“Wai—!”

He steps through the portal without another word. G’raha reaches out to try and pull him back and demand to know why in the world he didn’t do it _right_. When his fingers touch the portal, however, it stings him, pushing his hand away. 

“Would that it were so easy,” he sighs to himself. 

He looks down at his hand, unable to stop a smile from curling the corner of his mouth. He can still feel the imprint of Q’uille’s against it. He’s still nervous, of course, but Q’uille is right: he doesn’t break his promises. If he vows to return, he will, come hell or high water. That determination to see something through is what drew G’raha to him in the first place; he shouldn’t have forgotten it so easily. 

G’raha’s hand instinctively seeks out a pocket in his robes, brushing a finger against a comforting piece of parchment. He will stand at Q’uille’s side again, eventually. He wouldn’t suffer it otherwise.

For now, he has to content himself with the thought that they will discuss the kiss later.

◾

  
(Of course, when Q’uille returns, he’s immediately too busy for them to discuss it. The First missed him, and G’raha is content to let them have their time with him. And when they _are_ alone together, it’s impossible to bring it up. Eventually, the incident blows to the back of G’raha’s mind, as if it had been a dream.)


	8. imbalance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A moment of worry.

Q’uille has been unconscious for two nights.

G’raha works the edge of his hood between his forefinger and thumb as his gaze lingers on the page in front of him. The silence of the Umbilicus is often enough to set him in a trance, able to read for bells on end, but now it just makes him glance nervously at his bedroom door every few moments.

It shouldn’t be this quiet if Q’uille is here.

When he’s here, G’raha can’t stop laughing or smiling or talking. Q’uille never leaves a room silent, bringing to it energy and warmth. He must have been named the Warrior of Light for more than Hydaelyn’s blessing, because he brightens any dimness he encounters.

G’raha’s stomach twists for the thousandth time in two days. He hasn’t rested much, unable to keep his mind from racing. He can’t forget how sickly Q’uille looked when he was first carried to the Spagyrics, nor how anxious he himself had been as he sprinted there after receiving word of Q’uille’s state.

Q’uille, as a small blessing, has regained his color, at least. He’s also more animated in his sleep than he was when he first arrived; he’s unconsciously curled into the ball he usually sleeps in, breaths even and steady. Though there’s improvement, it hasn’t been enough to assuage G’raha’s anxieties.

“How’d I know ye’d be readin’?”

Q’uille leans on a shoulder in the doorway, a tired grin on his face. His tail hangs limp, his ears flop to one side. He’s only barely on his feet.

“You need to be in bed.” G’raha stands and approaches the other man.

Q’uille gives a tired groan. “‘m _fine_. Got up, didn’t I?” His mismatched eyes are unfocused as G’raha grows closer. 

G’raha shakes his head. “Through no small amount of stubbornness, I’m sure. Come.” He sets a gentle hand on Q’uille’s side, trying to guide him back to the bed.

Q’uille takes an obedient step, then sways dangerously. Only G’raha’s hands on his clothed chest keep him from falling to the floor.

“Ooh, wow, tha’s…wrong,” he slurs.

G’raha can’t fight the concerned frown tugging at his mouth. “We’re nearly there."

“Alrigh’, but _you_ gotta guide, ‘cause I,” Q’uille chuckles, “can’t see a damn thing.” He sways again, squeezing his eyes tightly. “…‘n’ m’ head hurts.”

“All to be expected.” The words do little to assuage G’raha’s fears.

He carefully guides Q’uille the few yalms it takes to reach the bed. The window reveals only a black sky with stars, leading their steps with little light. It’s a good thing G’raha cleaned most of the books when Q’uille arrived. 

Once they’re at the bed, he carefully lowers Q’uille into it. G’raha unhelpfully notes that he’s pale again.

Q’uille sighs as he sinks against the blankets. He cracks his eyes open. “Thanks.”

G’raha nods. He brushes hair from Q’uille’s forehead to press the back of his hand against it—instinct, given how sick the other man looks. His skin is chilled and clammy.

Q’uille’s eyes slip shut again, his ears relaxing against his head. “So…what’d I miss?”

“Just a moment.” G’raha straightens and pulls his hand away. “The others should be informed that you’ve woken up.”

He doesn’t wait for a response before he turns and leaves the room. He presses a finger to the linkpearl in his ear, praying that _someone_ will answer. They’ve been known to make contact at this distance before, but the Empty is far, and interference is rampant.

“—llo?”

“Thancred,” G’raha sighs in relief. “Good. I have news.”

“Is it our sleeping beauty? Is he awake?”

“He is.” G’raha’s voice sours. “He wasted no time in trying to take a leisurely stroll, and is back in bed.”

“Well, is he alright?”

“He will be. So long as he simply stays put.” G’raha raises his voice at the end to issue an indirect command to Q’uille.

“I’m glad to hear it. I’ll let the others know as soon as they return.” A pause. “Do take care of yourself as well, Exarch. I know you’ve a habit of working yourself to the bone.”

G’raha is too concerned over Q’uille to protest the needless worry. He simply says, “Be safe, Thancred,” and takes his finger from the linkpearl.

Q’uille’s eyes are shut and his head is tossed to the side when G’raha returns. He steps quietly, unwilling to disturb any sleep Q’uille might have found.

“‘m awake,” Q’uille mumbles, slowly turning his head. “Swear.”

“If you’re tired, you should rest.”

Q’uille makes a disgruntled noise. “Nah. What happened?”

G’raha presses his lips together, then gingerly sits on the bed near Q’uille. “Might I convince you to not worry about it until you’ve more energy?”

“Nice try.”

“…You collapsed in the Empty.” G’raha lifts a hand to rub his hood between his fingers again. “Given that your aether was…recently perilously imbalanced, your body is still struggling to maintain that balance. Thus, as the Empty siphoned aether from you, you were unable to withstand such effects for as long as you might normally.”

Explaining it like that, G’raha feels responsible. Is it not his fault that Q’uille was thrown into the Lightwardens’ paths in the first place? Without being exposed to so much Light-aspected aether, Q’uille would surely have had a better grasp on his limits. And—

“Hey. None o’ that, now.” Q’uille’s fingertips lightly brush G’raha’s leg.

It’s all he can reach, but the simple touch is enough to make G’raha lean towards him. “Of what?”

“That face.” Q’uille closes one eye, though the other—yellow—fixes squarely on G’raha, even through the low light. “I know what yer thinkin’, but it’s nobody’s fault but mine.”

“But—”

“ _Mine_. Got it?” 

G’raha stays silent, doubtfully gnawing on his lower lip as he looks for words.

“Ye beat yerself up too much, Raha.” Q’uille gives him a tired smile. “I’ll take this one. That fine with ye?”

G’raha hesitates before he nods, trying to shove the guilt from his chest. He attempts to return Q’uille’s smile. “And now you’ve exposed me as an awful caretaker. I should be the one expressing concern for you.”

“What’d I jus’ say ‘bout beatin’ yerself up? But fine, if ye gotta, worry away. ‘m okay.”

“You’ll forgive me if I’m skeptical. You’ve been unconscious for two suns.”

“Wuh—!” Q’uille’s head snaps up. “Why didn’t ye _lead_ with that?”

“Because now you’ll try to get out of this bed as soon as my back is turned.” G’raha lets a little sternness leak into his expression. “But you will not until you’re truly better and well-rested. Are we clear?”

“But the others—”

“—will be fine without you, and will wait for you before making any big developments.”

Q’uille pushes his lower lip out. “C’mon, Raha. What am I gonna do if I’m bedridden?”

“I’ll find some way to entertain you. You might be the Warrior of both Light and Darkness, but you still must take care of yourself.”

Q’uille hums, relaxing back into the mattress. “Sure. But how’re ye plannin’ on entertainin’ me?” He grins widely. “If the only fun things I can do involve beds, then….”

G’raha blinks and tries to pretend his cheeks don’t warm. “Then I shall give you any books you desire.”

“What if it’s not a book I’m desirin’?”

He’s still grinning. G’raha’s face heats further. He refuses to think that Q’uille is propositioning him now, of all times. It has to be a joke. That’s—frankly, the only logical explanation. It’s the sort of man Q’uille is. 

But G’raha is nothing if he doesn’t get to the root of an issue. “Then what would you like?”

Q’uille’s smile widens. “Blush on yer face says ye know _exactly_ what.”

G’raha stands, if only to give himself an excuse to look away and calm himself down. “Any such laborious activity is out of the question. And—besides, that’s my bed you’re in.”

“What, ye thought I wasn’t invitin’ ye? ‘Cause I was.”

G’raha thanks the gods that his tail fits comfortably in his robes, or Q’uille would see how fluffed it is thanks to his flustered state. _Play it cool, G’raha. He’s simply teasing._

“Be that as it may,” G’raha says, somehow able to keep himself together, “you still need to primarily rest. So no, nobody will be joining you in that bed.”

“…Why’m I in yer bed, anyroad? Were the Spagyrics all full?”

 _Ah._

“I was concerned for you, of course.” G’raha can finally face Q’uille, the blush on his face having died down some. “When I arrived at the Spagyrics and saw you, you were…lifeless. Pale. It was as if any and all signs that you had once lived were gone.”

G’raha swallows the residual fear. Q’uille is fine now—but G’raha’s heart had nearly stopped when he’d first laid eyes on the unconscious man. It was wrong to see his copper skin so ghostly-white, to see his face so peaceful in its sleep. Every fiber in G’raha’s body had screamed against it.

In an effort to lighten the mood, he adds, “And I wanted to ensure there would be someone nearby in the event you woke up and decided to—oh, I don’t know, take a stroll.” He lifts his brows meaningfully.

Q’uille snorts. “I’m not the first who’s gone traipsin’ off when I shouldn’t. Kholusia ring any bells?”

“That was…an entirely different situation.”

“Ye passed out next t’ a rock.”

“I was admiring the view, I told you.”

Q’uille snickers, the teasing slowly melting from his eyes. “Whatever the case, thanks. Seein’ ye gives me a lot more energy than bein’ in the Spagyrics would.”

G’raha offers a small smile. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“But!” Q’uille frowns. “I’m not takin’ yer bed. Ye gotta sleep too, Raha.”

“Worry about yourself, my friend. I’ve been making do.”

Q’uille frowns, unconvinced. “C’mere.”

“Why?”

“Jus’ do it. Lemme see yer face, ‘n’ I’ll believe ye.”

G’raha can’t full well ignore a request from a patient in his care. He sits at Q’uille’s side once more. Given how dark it is, he leans down to be more easily seen.

He starts when he feels warm fingers on his chin. He presses his lips in a thin line to ground himself as Q’uille turns his head first one way, then the other. He has to scrape together every onze of his willpower to keep from leaning into the touch, from coming undone because of it. 

He expects the inspection to end there, but Q’uille simply tugs his chin down so their eyes are meeting once more.

“Still not used t’ touch?” Q’uille’s voice is soft.

G’raha hesitates, then gives the slightest shake of his head. “N-not quite.”

Q’uille’s lips quirk in a small, reassuring smile. “That’s fine.” His calloused thumb strokes along the line of G’raha’s jaw. “But now I can tell yer not makin’ do.”

“And how did you come to that conclusion?”

“Ye got letters on yer face. Lots of ‘em.” Q’uille raises his hand from G’raha’s chin and swipes his thumb across G’raha’s cheekbone. When it pulls away, G’raha is horrified to see a smear of ink.

“Oh, gods,” he says, pulling up and wiping at his own face. He wrinkles his nose at the ink covering his fingers. “Oh, I’m a mess…is this why you rub my face every time you walk in?”

Q’uille snickers. “Aye. I can tell when ye ‘aven’t slept good, ‘cause ye get ink on yer face from sleepin’ on yer books. Dead giveaway.”

“Twelve preserve me,” G’raha mumbles as he continues to rub ink from his face. “Is it gone? Or am I making it worse?”

“Raha, relax,” Q’uille laughs. G’raha doesn’t stop until Q’uille loosely grabs his wrist. “Yer fine.” 

G’raha looks at him, and his stomach sinks when Q’uille presses his lips together to hide a laugh.

“…‘n’ ye made it worse.”

G’raha’s face burns again. Q’uille’s grip is too warm on his wrist, and frankly, he’s about to die from embarrassment. This is almost as bad as the salmon filet disaster. Almost.

“I am a fool.”

Q’uille throws his head back to laugh. “No! Yer no fool. Swear. Ye jus’ need a better sleepin’ routine.” He sobers up, though there’s still a small smile playing on his mouth. “Which means either we share the bed, or I head t’ the Spagyrics. Yer pick.”

G’raha inhales deeply, trying to school himself. He feels like a boy again with how flustered he is. Once he’s sure he won’t show his cards, he asks, “You don’t have a preference?”

“Can’t say I _like_ the idea o’ sleepin’ away from ye, but last thing I wanna do is mess up yer schedule.”

“You won’t.” G’raha is surprised with how quickly the words come, and with how strongly he feels them, but it’s true. He knows he’ll in fact sleep better with Q’uille’s own well-being on the line. “If you’d like to stay, who am I to argue?”

“It’s yer bed, Raha.”

“And you would not be in it if I did not will it.”

Q’uille’s soft grin stretches, a playful glint in his eye. “Well, then, I’ll jus’ get cozy.”

He does just that, releasing G’raha’s wrist to shift his weight. As he sinks deeper into the mattress with a relieved groan, he drapes his tail across one thigh and rests his hands on his stomach. Once settled, he opens his mouth to say something. He’s interrupted by a loud growl from his stomach.

G’raha can’t stop his lips from twisting upwards. “Hungry, are you?”

“Starvin’,” Q’uille says. His white-capped tail tip twitches a little in interest. “D’ye have anythin’?”

“Not at the moment, no.”

“Yer killin’ me, Raha.”

“I did not say I was incapable of finding something. Even so late at night.”

“Really?” Q’uille asks, ears perking with joy. “How would ye do that?”

G’raha shrugs a shoulder. “We’ll have to see. I tend to be lucky in late night snack endeavors.”

Q’uille rolls onto his side, curled towards G’raha, with a quiet _mmrh_. “My hero.”

G’raha swallows the instinctual flustered response to frown sternly at Q’uille. “But you _will_ stay in this bed while I’m gone. Are we clear?”

“But what if I—”

G’raha narrows his eyes.

Q’uille blinks. “Er—I mean, uh, what if I…fall asleep?”

“Then you will eat in the morning.” Against his better judgment, G’raha gently sets a hand on Q’uille’s head, between his ears, before he stands and moves away. “I won’t be long.”

Wide-eyed, Q’uille watches after G’raha with a light flush over his cheeks.


	9. favor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A moment to return a favor.

“What day is it?” Q’uille tosses the small blue ball in the air, catching it without moving from his sprawled position on the floor.

G’raha glances down at the parchment he’s taking notes on. “The twenty-third.”

“O’ the Sixth Umbral moon?”

“Indeed.” G’raha looks over at Q’uille. “Why do you ask?”

“Was just wonderin’. I knew my nameday was comin’ up, but didn’t think it’d be so quick.”

“Your nameday?” G’raha sets his quill down, frowning. “When is it?”

“Tomorrow.” Q’uille looks nonchalant as he continues tossing his ball. “Doesn’t count if I’m not really _from_ here, does it?”

“Of course it counts. You deserve to celebrate it. What plans do you have?”

“…Uh….”

G’raha’s frown deepens. “Who else knows?”

Q’uille seems very interested in his ball, rubbing a finger against its texture. “Well….”

G’raha allows a beat of silence to pass between them. “I see.” He stands, taking his staff, and walks towards the exit of the Umbilicus. “I’ll begin planning immediately.”

“Whoa, whoa!” Q’uille scrambles to get in G’raha’s way, arms spread. “There’s no need for that. It’s no big deal, Exarch, really.”

“No big deal? Do you honestly believe that?”

Q’uille hesitates. “Well, I haven’t celebrated in a while, see? Kept gettin’ pushed back, what with all the crises I have t’ handle. My ma usually bakes a cake when I visit, ‘n’ I jus’ celebrate then.”

“After all you’ve done to save the First, you deserve to celebrate yourself. I’m sure the other Scions would agree.”

“It jus’ feels wrong, is all.” Q’uille frowns down at his hands, squeezing the ball between them. “With everything goin’ on.”

Selfless to a fault. G’raha could strangle him. Instead, he sighs and reaches into his robe. He pulls a rectangle of parchment, soft with age, from the folds. Extending it to Q’uille, he asks, “Do you remember this?”

“What’s that?” Q’uille takes the paper and frowns down at it.

The words are faded; G’raha can only read them because he’s memorized them. He hints, “A gift you once gave me.”

Q’uille inhales, eyes going round as he looks between the parchment and G’raha. “Ye _kept_ it? I almost forgot about it, figured it was too small….”

“It was the only material possession I had to remind me of you; of course I kept it.” G’raha pulls himself to his full height and uses the extra inch to peer down at Q’uille. “And now I’m cashing it in.”

“If ye needed a favor, Raha, ye don’t have t’ use this—”

“Stay in your suite until tomorrow.”

Q’uille deflates. “Huh?”

“Stay in your suite, so that I may plan you a nameday party.” G’raha tempers his stubbornness with a small, forgiving smile. “It won’t be anything large or complex. But you deserve to be celebrated— _especially_ with everything going on.”

Q’uille’s ears flatten, and his tail flicks unsurely. “There’s no way to get out o’ this, is there?”

“Not one, I’m afraid.”

He sighs. “Fine. But really, I don’t need anythin’ big.”

“You have my word that I won’t go overboard.”

◾

And he doesn’t. _Technically_. It’s hardly G’raha’s fault that word gets out about the event, or that it spreads to the entire Crystarium, or that Q’uille is so damnably popular. Truthfully, he doesn’t even realize how big it’s gotten until he has a half-dozen people in front of him trying to figure out how they can contribute to the celebration.

Lights and lanterns are hung, flowers are potted and placed everywhere, signs are painted. Someone even throws together a haphazard, “abstract” metal sculpture of Q’uille in the center of the Exedra. (It resembles a morbol more than anything, but G’raha would never say as much.) Musicians take positions all throughout the Crystarium, ensuring that jubilant music fills every ilm of the city.

The other Scions, of course, get involved as well. Y’shtola, Urianger, and Thancred work together to make some fireworks with a little extra “pop” (and G’raha doesn’t bother asking what that means). Ryne is beside herself over finding a suitable gift, but the twins scoop her up on a mission to the pixies, to ask if they would lend a hand.

They return with Feo Ul and a veritable parade of pixies. Anything for their _little sapling_ , ‘twould seem; they bring baskets of food and ingredients, and alongside the Crystarium’s own chefs and gardeners, they put together a mountainous feast.

It’s a celebration that the Crystarium hasn’t seen the likes of before. Everyone is jubilant, hopeful—except for G’raha, of course, who ends up standing before Q’uille’s suite with a sheepish smile and a guilty conscience. He would fain give the Warrior of Light a hundred days like this; the man deserves no less. But he’d been under explicit orders to keep it a small affair, so he can hardly stop apologizing as he leads Q’uille to the festivities.

Q’uille repeatedly reassures him until they step outside the Pendants, and then he seems to realize exactly what the magnitude is. A sea of individuals shout _Happy nameday!_ at him, a squadron of pixies fly in formation overhead, and a few of the Scions’ “extra pop” fireworks blast loudly overhead.

Q’uille seems uncomfortable with all the attention at first, much to G’raha’s chagrin. But as the night plays out, his gregarious, fun-loving side shines more and more. He enjoys the meager gifts he’s given, endlessly compliments the food, and takes several individuals aside for impromptu dances—G’raha included, though he partakes for a mere moment before he lets the sea of people swallow him away.

Q’uille even introduces several games from the Source to groups of people. Triple Triad is a particular favorite with its simple rules, while Doman Mahjong is quickly abandoned (part of that may be due to Q’uille only remembering half the rules). He learns plenty of games from the First in return, including G’raha’s favorite, a card game lovingly titled Spoons. 

The pixies aren’t ones to stay out of the festivities, either. They share games as well, without tricks. They enjoy playing with the children in particular. A few of them offer glamours for the occasion, and soon, there are many Q’uilles walking around. 

It feels like a city-wide holiday with the infectious jubilation in the air. G’raha finds himself talking to others more than he has in the past century. He’s never felt younger; he’s always enjoyed speaking to others and hearing their stories, but he hasn’t had the luxury of doing so in a long time. He missed it dearly, and though he still feels guilty for allowing the party to grow to such a size, he wouldn’t trade this night for anything.

Especially not the end, when the half-moon is high in the sky, the pixies have gone back to Il Mheg, and the majority of the partygoers have returned to their homes. Q’uille finds G’raha in the silence of the night, legs swinging off the watchtower above the Rookery as he stares at the Crystal Tower. He came up here to watch the Scions’ fireworks display, and though they must have gone to sleep ages ago, he felt too at peace to move. He’s full and content and happy—and a little guilty, still, but so be it.

“Didn’t know ye could throw a party, nerd that ye are.” Q’uille sits beside him with a quiet grunt.

G’raha scoffs. “Oh, this was hardly _my_ idea. I asked for a few decorations and perhaps a cake, and it seems my folly was believing anyone would stay quiet.” He says it as a joke, though he adds sincerely, “I do apologize. ‘Twas not my intent.”

Q’uille nudges their shoulders together. “Don’t need t’ apologize. I had fun. I didn’t think people would wanna do anythin’, but…they all looked happy.”

“Of course they did. They dearly love their Warrior of Darkness. If truth be told, they take what opportunities they can get to celebrate liberally. Before you came, they had little cause to.”

Q’uille doesn’t respond, though he leans lightly against G’raha. They sit in peaceable silence for a few moments before Q’uille breaks it.

“This is familiar.”

“What is?”

“Sittin’ at night, watchin’ the Tower after a nameday party.” Q’uille smiles fondly, his gaze far away. “Didn’t think we’d get here again.”

G’raha has to reach for the memory, and though it’s foggy and unclear, it does come. He mirrors Q’uille’s expression. “I could hardly leave a surprise party unreturned.”

Q’uille snorts, falling against him more. G’raha catches a whiff of fruity wine. “‘N’ here ye blew NOAH’s party outta the water. I’ll ‘ave t’ get ye back somehow once we’re back home.”

“ _Please_ don’t,” G’raha begs. “‘Tis hardly necessary. As I said, this was all a mistake. And I’m afraid I would handle such a large gathering with much less grace than you did.”

“I think ye did fine. Saw ye a few times, jawin’ away with others. Ye looked happy. Crowds suit ye.”

G’raha looks down at the amaro, face warm. “The people of the Crystarium are different. I have seen many of them grow up. They have become a family to me in my time here; I can speak to them with ease, particularly now that the time for ruses has passed. This…has become a home.”

Q’uille shifts away, letting the chill of the night brush G’raha again. “Can I ask ye somethin’, Raha?”

“Anything, my friend.” G’raha frowns with worry at the other man, who’s avoiding his eyes. “What is on your mind?”

“Do….” Q’uille sighs and laces his hands together. He taps his thumbs against each other. “Are ye plannin’ on comin’ back?” His voice is small, unsure. “T’ the Source?”

“I would like to. Whether ‘tis actually possible remains to be seen, but I have hope.”

“Even though the Crystarium’s like a home?”

G’raha presses their shoulders together himself, though his gaze drifts to the Tower once more. “‘Tis not an easy decision to make.” He takes a breath, shifts his tail closer to Q’uille’s. “Although I cherish the people here, this is not my world. I have attempted to pretend it was, particularly in the past century, but…I simply don’t fit. In addition, their time for me has passed. Now that night has returned, they hardly need their Exarch.

“But more than that, my heart aches to see the Source again. To see home again. In my time here, I have caught glimpses of it—mere echoes of its splendor, and ones that always leave me wanting. I dearly miss the Thanalan sun, the La Noscean winds—even Mor Dhona, gloomy as it may have been.” He reaches up to rub moisture from his eyes. “And pray don’t forget my primary purpose in coming here. Now that your life has been saved, living there again hardly seems so daunting.”

Their glances linger and lock. Q’uille’s expression is soft—not quite a smile, but not a frown, either. His eyes shine, and he opens his mouth to say something, though nothing comes out.

And suddenly G’raha remembers how soft those lips are, and how close they are, and how much closer they can be. They still haven’t discussed the kiss. Would now be an appropriate time? Q’uille’s hair burns silver in the moonlight. His pupils look rounder than normal—an effect of the alcohol and low light, most like. While he doesn’t speak, his lips remain parted.

G’raha lifts his hand with the intent to run his fingers through the other man’s hair, but as soon as he realizes it, the trance breaks. He grips his own hand, looks back to the Tower, flames on his face. 

“‘Tis quite late,” he says before he realizes what he’s done. His instincts had taken over, forced him to run from the situation, from the pink sensation bubbling in his chest. _Stupid. Stupid._

“…Aye. Ye should probably head t’ bed.” That can’t possibly be disappointment in Q’uille’s voice, and certainly his drooping ears are a trick of the light.

G’raha stands and hesitates. “I do hope you had a good day, although it didn’t quite go according to plan.”

“I’d call it the best nameday I’ve had in a long time.” Q’uille offers a small grin. “After all, yer here.”

G’raha smiles in return. “Then I will consider this endeavor a success. Goodnight, Uille.”

The name slips out without him intending it, but Q’uille’s ears perk immediately at its use. It’s the first time G’raha has said it since they reunited; he hasn’t felt like he had the right to use it. Truthfully, he still doesn’t, hot mortification rushing through him as he realizes what he’s done.

He can’t regret it, though, when Q’uille’s face melts into something soft and warm and _happy_. “Sweet dreams, Raha.”

And that’s enough to have G’raha all but skipping down the stairs. For a last-minute affair, he’s glad it turned out so well.

He can only hope he has ample time to plan the next one.


	10. return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A moment to begin again.

Q’uille’s heart drums against his ribcage as he stares at the golden figures on the door. Anticipation courses through his arms and sweat coats his palms, making the spirit vessel in his hand slick. His chest heaves as he holds the crystal up to the door. He panics in the second it takes for the figures to respond to it.

The doors slowly swing inwards, revealing the dark interior of the Crystal Tower. He may have run the entire way from Revenant's Toll, so he takes a moment to catch his breath as the doors open. In case this goes wrong—in case G’raha’s body rejects the spirit in the vessel, or something else—he wants to be ready to sprint them both back to the Rising Stones.

When he isn’t gasping anymore, he runs through the doors. The Tower is easier to navigate now, after all the time he spent in it in the First. He navigates it without hesitation, a single destination in his mind. Lights flicker on as his feet trace the familiar path up the spiral staircase.

He wishes he knew what to expect. As it is now, he can’t decide between being scared or excited. If this works, G’raha will be back and they won’t have to part. But if it doesn’t, then he could be lost forever—or maybe worse. This sort of thing hasn’t been done before. What if doing this corrupts him somehow, twists him into something dangerous?

 _No._ Q’uille won’t humor those thoughts; this will work. It has to. It’s the only way. He’s not saying goodbye to this man _again_. The first time hurt enough. 

His thighs burn as he ascends the spiral stairs, but he doesn’t slow down. Each second he wastes is another second that something could go wrong, that fate could conspire to take G’raha away, that Q’uille would have to live without him. After what just happened—after thinking he’d lose him—he’s not going to let anything happen. This time, he’ll get his shit together and say what needs to be said, before it’s too late, before there “isn’t any time” to say it.

He gasps for air when he reaches the top of the stairs. He doesn’t stop, though; he forces himself to run the rest of the way, turning the landing and ascending more curving steps. He only stops once he reaches the throne room, the sudden light almost blinding.

The setting sun casts a long light, revealing that the plateau hasn’t changed since Q’uille fought Xande here. The fight feels like a lifetime ago. One thing that _has_ changed is the throne. Azure crystal has grown over it, glittering in the light. The rock creeps down the steps leading to the seat, covering the gold filigree like barnacles on a ship.

And deep in the crystal, a dark silhouette sits.

Q’uille approaches the throne, suddenly unsure. He doesn’t know what he was expecting, but it definitely wasn’t more crystals. He glances down at the spirit vessel, as if G’raha can somehow give him a suggestion. It’s silent, but warm in his hand.

When he reaches the top of the stairs leading to the seat, he stares at the figure inside the mass of crystal. This close, he can make out details—ears, mostly, but if he squints, he thinks he can see the shape of G’raha’s bow, too. The stone is cool to the touch when Q’uille presses his hand against it.

“Raha.” His voice feels loud in the silence, even though he’s only murmuring. “Time t’ wake up.”

He didn’t expect the words to do much, but he’s still a little disappointed when nothing happens. Unsure of what else he can try (short of smashing the crystal to pieces), he presses the spirit vessel against the crystal. A second passes, and another. Just when he’s about to pull away and attempt brute force, the spirit vessel shines. 

It could be a trick of the light, but he thinks he sees a flash travel through the crystal and to the body inside. After another few beats, the stone starts to crack, shatter, and fall away, pooling around his ankles and sliding down the stairs until G’raha is unearthed.

He looks just like he used to. Q’uille didn’t think he missed the sight, but G’raha without a harsh blue streak down his neck or gray teasing his hair is enough to make his heart swell. 

G’raha groans as his head rolls forward. Within a second, he leaps to his feet with a panicked gasp. His knees give out from under him, but before he can hit the floor, Q’uille holds him up in a tight hug.

“Uille,” G’raha croaks. He melts into the embrace.

“Yer awake!” Q’uille pulls away, though he steadies the other man with hands on his shoulders. “How d’ye feel? What do ye remember?”

“I fuh—feel….” G’raha’s eyes flutter. He slumps in Q’uille’s hold, head rolling. When he falls against Q’uille’s chest, he’s just dead weight.

“Raha?” Q’uille tries not to let the panic show, but when G’raha doesn’t stir, he can’t help it. 

He works on instinct, carefully twisting around and lowering himself to pull G’raha onto his back. Once his arms are hanging over Q’uille’s shoulders, Q’uille carries him out of the throne room and down the stairs.

He has to get G’raha to the Rising Stones as soon as possible. He doesn’t know anything about _souls_. What if this unconsciousness is a bad sign? He needs Krile or Y’shtola or anyone else. He should’ve brought someone along—what if something happens because he was too eager to wake G’raha up? He should’ve thought about it more. Now all he can do is hope he can get to Revenant’s Toll in time.

As he hustles, he tries to hang onto a kernel of hope: at least G’raha woke up.

◾

Q’uille doesn’t normally have issues napping. But the beds in Dawn’s Respite aren’t the most comfortable, and he’s still in his adventuring gear besides, so it’s no wonder that the softest whispering at the bed next to the one he’s commandeered wakes him up. He flicks an ear and curls tighter into a ball in an attempt to ignore it.

Really, he isn’t supposed to be here. He wanted to take a nap, though, and it’s been a couple days since G’raha was admitted, so can anyone blame him for wanting to be close by? Krile reassured him that G’raha’s body just needed some time to adjust, especially to absorb the new memories that it was receiving. Q’uille trusts her knowledge, but he still worries. They know so little about all of this.

The people at the adjacent bed speak too quietly to make out any words, but he can at least recognize the voices. Y’shtola’s soothing cadence. Alphinaud’s worried fretting. Alisaie’s snarky comebacks. Krile’s sly teasing. And— 

Oh. _Oh._

Q’uille shoots up to a seated position at the last voice, drawing the attention of the quintet at the neighboring bed. Only a breath passes before he launches himself from his own bed (nearly tripping on his lance) towards the other.

“Raha!” he shouts with a laugh, jumping onto the man’s bed to wrap him in a tight hug.

G’raha wheezes when Q’uille lands on him, but pats his back with a giggle. “I apologize if we woke you.”

Q’uille huffs and presses his face into G’raha’s shoulder. “Wake me sooner next time. Throw somethin’ at me if ye can’t get up, huh? I missed ye.” He can feel his own tail weaving happily through the air, but he doesn’t bother to smother it. 

He’s just glad G’raha seems okay.

“Speaking of getting up,” Y’shtola cuts in smoothly, “I would recommend you get off our bedridden Exarch. He must still be exhausted.”

“I feel fine,” G’raha is quick to say. Q’uille doesn’t have to look to know everyone else has fixed him with a disbelieving stare. “Really! The Crystal Tower provided the energy that I would need to live while I slept, so truly, I feel alright. Fantastic, I’d even venture.”

Q’uille pulls away to meet G’raha’s gaze. “Good. How’d yer memories meld? What do ye remember?” 

“Everything,” G’raha answers. His arms loop loosely around Q’uille’s waist as his smile softens. “Including the trip you took my spirit vessel on around Norvrandt. Thank you, my friend.”

Q’uille returns a toothy grin and lightly pinches G’raha’s cheek. “‘Course! Was the least I could do, considerin’ everything.” 

“We were just in the process of informing the Exarch of what he’s missed,” Alphinaud supplies. “Although it’s been a quiet time, to say the least.”

“I’ll say,” Alisaie laments. “We’ve been stuck at Revenant’s Toll for three suns with nothing to really do. At this point, I almost wish someone would summon a Primal or something.”

“No, you don’t,” Y’shtola admonishes.

“I _did_ say ‘or something.’”

“Ye have t’ learn t’ stop ‘n’ smell the roses, Ali,” Q’uille says. “Enjoy this time t’ relax. We don’t get it much.”

“Surprising advice, coming from the Warrior of Light,” Krile snickers. “It seems like you’re always flitting about to handle something or other.”

“I take naps,” Q’uille grumbles.

“I can attest to this,” G’raha adds.

“See?” Q’uille turns his victorious grin on Krile.

“Letting you two in the same area is dangerous indeed, I see,” she says, though her voice is light. “Anyroad—Raha, your soul has settled now. Luckily for us all, it appears you had a smooth transferral. You should be back to working order well within the week.” 

“I will be glad to get on my feet again,” G’raha says. His ears dip a fraction. “And…figuring out what to do now, I suppose. I scarcely imagined this plan would work.”

“Yer stickin’ ‘round, right?” Q’uille blurts.

G’raha flushes lightly and looks away. “I would like to, but short of joining the Scions myself, I’m not sure in what capacity I’d be able to assist you all.”

“Then the answer is simple,” Y’shtola declares. “Join us.”

G’raha blinks at her. “Is it truly that easy?”

Her lips twist upwards, wry. “Why not? Provided what we’ve all endured with you, I don’t see why it wouldn't be. We’ll need to discuss it with Urianger and Tataru, of course, as they handle our recruiting, but I doubt they’ll have any objections. Tataru even made you an outfit during our absence, so consider the position yours.”

“ _If_ you’d like it,” Alphinaud hastily adds. “Please don’t feel any pressure. It’s your own life to do with as you please, Exarch.”

“Ah, please,” G’raha says as he shifts, “just call me by my name. The Crystal Exarch is a role that lived by necessity in the First. I would prefer to keep my name while I’m…home.”

“I understand completely,” Alphinaud says. 

G’raha gives him a polite smile. “As for the offer to join the Scions, thank you. I will….” His gaze slides to Q’uille’s. “…consider it. Though I admit it’s an appealing offer.” 

“You can at least _pretend_ you’re thinking about the others when you say that, Raha,” Krile teases.

G’raha goes beet red, ripping his gaze to the lalafell woman. “I—! Have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Come now, he’s sitting on your lap. Surely you—” 

“Krile.” Q’uille doesn’t want to cut in, because he likes the thought of G’raha being as unsure with his own feelings as he is. But the teasing is making G’raha lean away from him, and right now, that’s the last thing Q’uille wants. “All in good time, aye? ‘e just woke up, ‘n’ he’s probably hungry. Ye can tease ‘im later.”

“You’re right,” Krile sighs. “I’m sorry—I’m just so excited to talk to you, Raha.”

“It’s alright,” G’raha reassures easily. Q’uille doesn’t miss the way he relaxes in his arms again. “I’m still in awe that you’re here before me. I didn’t imagine I’d ever see you a—” He stops abruptly, pressing his lips together. “…so soon after awakening, that is to say.”

Krile returns an understanding smile. “Indeed. Since Q’uille brought it up, however: _are_ you hungry?”

G’raha replies almost sheepishly, ears drooping, “Yes. Very much so, in fact.”

“You should’ve said something,” Alisaie says. “We could’ve eaten ages ago. I’m starved. Alphinaud and I were on our way to get lunch when you two pulled us in here.” She frowns at Y’shtola and Krile.

“Krile and I have been here for a while as well,” Y’shtola inserts. “I imagine she’s as hungry as I am?” 

Krile confirms with a nod and a hum.

“Shall we all go find something to eat, then? We can bring something back for you, G’raha.” Y'shtola glances at him.

“I can come with you,” G’raha offers. “I believe I feel fine enough to walk.”

“You should continue to rest,” Krile says. “You’ve only just woken up, and we’ve no idea how much of your body’s energy this transference expended. You ought to relax while you have the time for it.”

“I can keep ye company, Raha,” Q’uille interjects before G’raha can look too disappointed. “I’ve got boatloads o’ stories from the past few suns.”

“As expected,” Alisaie says. “Everyone always goes to you for whatever they need, Mister Warrior of Light.”

“Hey, hey,” Q’uille says, grinning over his shoulder at her. “Ye get a _couple_ bells when I’m takin’ my daily nap. Jus’ help out then.”

“They wait for you to wake up.”

“What?” Q’uille gasps, overdramatic. “The great Ali, felled by someone insistin’ on ‘avin’ someone else help ‘em? Are ye sick?”

“You—!” Alisaie puffs and stomps up to Q’uille, though the corners of her lips are twitching upwards.

He hides his face in G’raha’s shoulder, laughing, “No! Not the flicks!”

“You’re lucky G’raha is protecting you,” Alisaie scolds. “And that I’m not the type to pull innocent individuals into a fight.”

“Thank you,” G’raha says. “Having been the attention of your wrathful flicks before, I would rather not experience one again so soon.”

“Rub some of that temperament onto Q’uille,” Alisaie says. “Now, shall we be off? I’m not getting any less hungry.” 

The others murmur their agreements and split away from the bed, each bidding G’raha and Q’uille farewell.

“If you’d like to go eat as well, you are more than welcome to,” G’raha says. He pulls his arms away from Q’uille. “I’ll be perfectly alright with some time by myself.”

Q’uille doesn’t respond, watching the others until the door shuts behind them. Once he’s sure he and G’raha are alone, he pins the other man with his gaze. “We need t’ talk.”

G’raha blinks owlishly, ears pinned back on his head. “It must be a serious topic indeed to warrant such an intense expression,” he tries to joke.

Q’uille shakes his head and tries to soften his face. “Sorry—shit, no, it’s not, uh, it’s not so bad.” He slides away to stand next to the bed instead. As he turns to G’raha, he looks down at his hands and presses his fingertips together. “A while ago, I kissed ye. Remember?”

“I do.” 

G’raha’s voice is careful, measured. Q’uille grimaces inwardly; he wishes G’raha would give him a _hint_. He’s given plenty in the past, but what matters is the moment of truth, not the times in between.

Still, Q’uille’s gotten this far. He inhales deeply and plunges forward, warmth on his cheeks. “I’m o’ the mind that made my feelings pretty clear, but we never got a chance t’ talk about it, so I was jus’ wonderin’ if…uh, what yer own thoughts on it were. If ye hated it, or liked it, or wanted t’ do it again.”

The moments before G’raha’s response are agony to wait, but Q’uille forces his gaze down. Anticipation makes his heart pound, and his ears twitch at every slight noise. His tail flicks nervously behind him. He’s tempted to glance up to try and gauge G’raha’s reaction, but he can’t find the willpower to.

“A reminder might be in order.”

That response is so far from what Q’uille expects that he jerks his head up to stare at G’raha. “What do ye mean? Ye jus’ said ye remember it.”

G’raha wears a smile through the pink tinting his cheeks, ears relaxed on top of his head. “I mean that I’d like to kiss you again. I would’ve done so the first time if you hadn’t left so quickly.”

“I—it was a goodbye kiss!” Q’uille defends. “I had t’ leave, else it’d be awkward. Anyhow, ye didn’t react at all, so I kept it short, ‘cause it weren’t meant t’ pressure ye or nothin’ like that, ‘n’—”

G’raha silences him by curling a hand into his hood and tugging him closer. When Q’uille steps forward, it’s because he wants to, not because G’raha exerted any amount of force. G’raha gnaws on his lower lip in thought as he stares up at Q’uille.

G’raha looks healthy, at least. Now that Q’uille can stare at him so close, he can see that. His face almost glows with energy, his cheeks tinted rose. His hair is almost as vibrant as his ruby eyes. It hangs in his face, but at least one eye is staring back unimpeded. 

Words clog Q’uille’s throat, but he can’t figure out if he should say them or not. He doesn’t want to ruin the moment. G’raha looks like he’s working himself up to something, or waiting for Q’uille to do something. But Q’uille’s already made the first move, and G’raha hasn’t _really_ answered his question, so— 

G’raha decides on a course of action then. He pulls Q’uille further down, and Q’uille has no thoughts of not complying. His eyes flutter shut, anticipation making his breath hitch. He stops moving when warm breaths brush against his lips. The pause feels like a question, like asking for permission.

Q’uille’s willpower snaps. He surges to press their lips firmly together as he lifts a hand to G’raha’s jaw. It steadies him as his head spins, as they each grow acquainted with the other’s mouth. Q’uille’s kiss is eager, but G’raha’s is soft. They meet somewhere in the middle after a few tries.

When Q’uille breaks the kiss, he realizes his second hand has snaked up to hold G’raha’s waist. His tail curls over the other man’s leg, and he’s pressing him lightly into the wall.

At that last realization, Q’uille pulls back a little. “Sorry,” he hoarsely whispers. “I, uh, well…wow, huh?”

“Wow indeed.” G’raha slides his hand from Q’uille’s hood to his cheek. “Did that by chance clarify my own feelings on the matter?”

“Maybe. Wouldn’t hurt t’ try again, though.”

G’raha laughs, open and bright. “Insatiable already, aren’t you?”

“I’ve jus’ got years o’ feelings t’ make up for, ‘sall.”

“Years?”

G’raha asks with a smile, but it still makes Q’uille’s heart skip a beat. He rambles, “Well, ye know yer great, ‘n’ ye were always great, so—so really, it shoulda been soddin’ obvious I had a crush on ye, ‘cause who _wouldn’t_ , aye? Pretty sure the others were bettin’ on when I’d say somethin’. Wedge kept tryin’ t’ get me t’ confess, ‘n’ Biggs’d do the opposite.” His face is on fire. “But…what I meant was….”

“The onus to confess was not entirely on you,” G’raha interrupts. He takes his hands away, but Q’uille laces their fingers together. “I admit to having an…early infatuation.” His cheeks tint pink. “But I chose not to act on it. Given my drive to discover the secrets of the Allagans, I knew there was little room in my life for such a relationship. Besides, I didn’t believe you felt similarly. The vaunted Warrior of Light, turning his attentions to a humble Sharlayan scholar with a cursed eye such as myself—”

“But yer one o’ the smartest people I know!” Q’uille can’t hold back the words, unwilling to hear G’raha talk badly about himself. “‘N’ fun, too. The others weren’t borin’, but ye were special. _Are_ special. ‘N’ yer loyal ‘n’ dedicated ‘n’ selfless—summat leads ye t’ makin’ dangerous choices, but I still love ye for it. Not t’ mention—”

“What was that?”

“What was what?”

“That last part. I’m afraid I didn’t quite catch it.”

Q’uille recounts the words silently, then freezes when he realizes what he said. He opens his mouth, but he isn’t sure quite how to save himself. His face somehow flushes further with mortification. He’s been so _careful_ , but here one kiss from G’raha made him loose-lipped and moogle-minded. 

He does feel that way, but he didn’t mean to admit to it so soon. G’raha only just woke up, after all, and he’s not even sure whether he’ll stay with the Scions, and the last thing Q’uille wants is to pressure him. Besides, being too passionate might make G’raha think he’s coming on too strong, which— 

G’raha brushes his lips across one of Q’uille’s knuckles. “I feel much the same,” he murmurs, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a smile. “And I believe your confession has given me the energy I need to get up.”

“Get up?”

“I’ve something of an appetite myself, don’t you recall?”

“No! No, yer gonna stay in bed, ‘n’ I’ll get ye some food if yer so famished.”

“Uille.”

The nickname renders him silent for a moment, ears wiggling. He whines and frowns. “Krile _said_ ye might need more energy.”

“Uille.” G’raha drags a thumb across the back of Q’uille’s hand, voice soft. “I swear to you that I will be able to handle this.”

And, really, what is Q’uille supposed to do with such an earnest plea? He huffs and looks away, pouting. “Sea take me,” he grumbles. “Fine. But we’ll go see Tataru first, afore she forces ye into yer new clothes.”

“I am to be tested, then. So be it; I shall give it my all, and when I succeed, we will eat lunch together on Rowena’s balcony.” 

“Already got it all figured out, have ye?” Q’uille squeezes G’raha’s hand and takes another step back. “C’mon, then; up ‘n’ at ‘em, bigshot.”

Q’uille only realizes then how excited G’raha is to see the Source again, given how quickly he moves. Q’uille helps him stand, one hand on his lower back. Once G’raha is steady on his feet, he briskly sets off for the door. Q’uille has to stumble to pick up his lance and catch up.

“What’s this about new clothes, by the way?” G’raha asks once Q’uille is at his side again.

Q’uille opens the door and ushers G’raha through as he explains Tataru’s penchant for worried crafting. It’s really quite kind of her, though Q’uille guiltily admits he usually wears his own gear anyway. He’s just more comfortable in it.

They don’t take long to track her down, and she nearly jumps at the opportunity to finally see if she properly sized G’raha’s new outfit. Q’uille is glad to see him out of the white sick-clothes.

G’raha and Tataru send him off to Rowena’s, to get a head start on a meal while G’raha changes. Q’uille only protests a little, concerned about G’raha’s stamina—but ultimately, he lets them run him out.

As he navigates through Revenant’s Toll, he can’t remember feeling so buoyant. For the first time since this all started, everything feels right. Everyone is where they should be, finally.

Wind pushes past him, and his steps feel light as the breeze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the end! :)
> 
> i just wanna take a moment to thank everyone who kudosed and commented on this fic ♥ you all made me feel a lot better about what i was writing LOL, so thank you!! i'm really glad that q'uille could find a way into your hearts even a little bit :') 
> 
> sending good vibes to all my fellow catboy appreciators!! thank you again <3

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading this far! i'm on [tumblr](https://praetoriums.tumblr.com/) too!!


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